None Left Standing
by Disgruntled Peony
Summary: Stark kidnaps Darien, and he has disturbing plans for our beloved Invisible Man....
1. 1

Title: None Left Standing  
Author: liz_Z  
E-mail: liz_Z@secret-agent.com  
Category: Drama, Angst  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Enemy of my Enemy' and The New Stuff'. Brief allusions to the Pilot, Father Figure', Enemy of my Enemy', and The New Stuff' (and please note that I have listed the episodes in the order that they appear, not in the order that the references occur).  
Season/Sequel info: Takes place after the end of the second season.  
Disclaimer: I don't own The Invisible Man' however, I will soon be sending my character clones over to the Sci-Fi channel offices with shotguns, tazers, and an Uzi to see if they can't remedy that little technicality. (She said as her eyes turned a lovely shade of silver.)  
Author's notes: Unlike most of my angst bunnies, this idea did not come to me after midnight. It came to me just as I woke up in the morning. That meant that, while it had all the angst potential of a late-night bunny, it actually had a long and convoluted plot to go along with it. Talk about scary... I'm afraid to wake up now in the mornings.

It was a beautiful day in downtown San Diego. The sun shone brightly over the city, bathing its inhabitants in a warm glow. It wasn't the sort of day where people wanted to go to work and spend time on monotonous, every-day tasks. It was the sort of day where people wanted to request time off. The lazy, sun-soaked atmosphere gave everything a pleasantly lethargic feel that made it the perfect day for sunbathing, curling up with a good book, or even taking a long nap.

However, the calm was suddenly disrupted as Darien's car roared into the Agency parking lot, jumping the curb and nearly crashing into another car's bumper. It careened across the warm asphalt with reckless abandon before it finally lurched to a stop in a far corner of the lot, taking up two parking spaces in the process.

Darien threw open his car door and climbed out, just barely taking the time to survey his shoddy parking job. However, he didn't attempt to correct his error; he merely jammed his car keys into his pocket and walked toward the door of the Harding building. He flung it open and stormed inside, muttering angrily under his breath.

He walked down the halls at a fast clip, his back rigid and his fists clenched, and was so absorbed in his anger that he didn't see the young woman rounding a corner with a large stack of files in her arms until it was too late. The two of them collided, the papers falling haphazardly to the floor.

HEY! Watch where you're going, pal! the woman hollered, standing back to her feet and giving Darien a harsh glare. Darien didn't bother to apologize, since in his current state of mind it probably would have come out more as an infuriated rant about how he wasn't the one at fault, even though he knew he was. He just stood up and continued on down the hall. The woman huffed in anger and bent down to pick up the files, grumbling to herself about the death of chivalry.

Darien frowned as he reached his destination. He threw open the door to the Official's office, causing it to slam noisily against the wall. The Official looked up, startled, but when he saw that the offending person was Darien he looked back down at his paperwork and growled sarcastically, Why don't you try again? You didn't break the glass this time.

Darien walked up to the Official's desk and slammed his fist down on it, scattering papers everywhere. The Official's brow knitted in irritation. Darien leaned down so that he and the obese man were face-to-face and hissed, Look, don't toy with me! I'm not playing your games anymore!

The Official gave Darien a harsh glare. Who's playing games?

There is no way. NO WAY!

The Official crossed his arms and said nonchalantly, I'm merely asking of you what I ask of every other agent. I don't care whether you like it or not, it's Agency policy. And if you ask me, it's something for which you are long overdue.

Darien grabbed the Official by the collar. I don't care what you say! he yelled angrily. I am not cutting my hair!

The Official shrugged off Darien's grip and glared up at him. You wanted to be a government agent? Then you have to start looking like one.

Darien straightened up and absently ran a hand through his hair. Those regulation haircuts' bite, man! They look like crap!

Keep your personal opinions to yourself, Agent Fawkes. You will get a haircut. Tomorrow. If you don't, I'm fully prepared to dock your paycheck.

I told you before, we do things my way or I walk.

I'll dock Hobbes' pay too.

There was a long moment of silence as Darien absorbed this information. Then he glared down at the Official and said threateningly, You're gonna be sorry. I guarantee it. The Official merely smirked, knowing that he had won the argument.

Darien turned around and began to storm out of the Official's office. However, when he opened the door, Eberts was standing in the doorway with a large stack of papers in his hands. Darien shoved him out of the way and stomped out of the room, ignoring the expression of complete and utter bewilderment on the shorter man's face.

Eberts shook his head in confusion. What did I do?

**********

Hobbes walked into the lab, hoping for a snack since Claire usually kept a few containers of yogurt in the refrigerator, and glanced around. Darien was sitting in the demented dentist's chair, a deep scowl on his face. Claire was in the lab as well, working on an experiment, and seemed to be keeping as far away from Darien as she possibly could. She looked up as Hobbes walked into the room and heaved a sigh of relief. Bobby! Thank goodness. Try and talk some sense into Darien, will you?

Hobbes sighed and rolled his eyes. What's going on NOW?

Darien stood to his feet, glowering. The Official's gone too far this time!

Hobbes was beginning to get an idea of where this was going. That's what you said when he told you he wanted you to pass your physical and start wearing suits to work, he replied, an amused expression on his face.

Darien frowned. I passed the physical, he said defensively.

But you're not wearing the suit, Hobbes said, smirking as he looked over Darien's current wardrobe choice, which consisted of his blue Jerry jacket, a white t-shirt, and brown slacks.

Darien glanced down instinctively at his clothes, then decided to change tactics. Look, he wants me to cut my hair, okay?

Hobbes scoffed and rolled his eyes. Is that all?

Darien gave Hobbes a hurt look. Come on Hobbes, I could use a little support here! My hair is part of me, it helps define who I am.

So it defines you as a Chia-pet? Or better yet, one of those little troll dolls? Hobbes asked, unable to contain his smirk.

Darien glared at Hobbes. Look, ever since I came back to the Agency the Official's been tryin' to pull all this stuff on me about making me a real agent', or a real man', or some line of crap like that. I'm sick of it! He stuffed his hands in his pockets and hissed, He can't treat me like this, not anymore. He nodded his head decisively to punctuate his sentence. I'm going on strike.

With that said, Darien stormed out of the room. Claire and Hobbes watched the lab door slide shut behind him.

Claire inclined her head toward Hobbes and asked, How long do you think he'll be gone?

Hobbes shrugged. Couple of days, maybe three at the most. He added dryly, I'd be figuring on one, if today wasn't a Friday.

**********

Darien pulled into the parking lot for his apartment building and then climbed out of his car. He was still angry over the way the Official had been treating him of late. He knew that the fat man probably held a grudge against him for coming back to the Agency in the manner he had, but that didn't justify the fact that what the Official was requesting was simply outrageous, at least in Darien's opinion.

He started to cross the lot, but came to an abrupt halt as a large black car pulled up in front of him. The car door opened and a tall man wearing a dark suit and sunglasses stepped out, one hand in his pocket. Two lackeys stepped out behind him. Darien crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to expect.

The man stepped forward, saying in a guttural voice, Darien Fawkes?

Darien narrowed his eyes suspiciously. What's it to you?

The man motioned toward the car. Come with me.

Darien began to back up slowly. This whole thing was a little too much like some cheesy kidnapping movie for his taste. Sorry, but my mommy taught me never to get in cars with strangers, he quipped. The man in the suit took his hand out of his coat pocket, pulling a large needle out with it. Darien paled and began to back up faster. She said I wasn't supposed to take candy from em either...

Darien abruptly turned around and began to run, allowing the quicksilver to flow over his body. However, before he could attain full invisibility he was seized roughly by the two lackeys and jerked around to face the man in the suit.

Darien's eyes widened as the man plunged the needle into his neck in a self-satisfied manner. I can assure you, Mister Fawkes, we won't be strangers for long.

The man's two cronies began to drag Darien roughly toward the car. Darien struggled at first, but his limbs began to rebel as the contents of the needle began to take their effect. The men in suits shoved him haphazardly into the back seat of the car, sandwiching him between them. Darien slumped back against the leather seat, barely conscious. His last thought before he passed out was an all too appropriate aw crap'.


	2. 2

Darien woke slowly, his head pounding in a fashion vaguely reminiscent of what he used to feel during the early stages of quicksilver madness. He opened his eyes, wincing as light stabbed at his pupils, and glanced down at his tattoo out of habit. All green. The sight gave him pause. It always did. 

After a moment he looked around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the bright light. What he saw didn't please him at all. The room he was in was covered with white padding from floor to ceiling. There was a one-way mirror entrenched in one wall, reflecting the pallor of the room like an eerily calm lake. The only thing to indicate that this wasn't the same padded room as Darien had been kept in so many times at the Agency was the different design of the window embedded in the door.

Darien noticed his reflection in the mirror and frowned. He stood to his feet and walked over for a closer look, hardly daring to believe his eyes. His previous ensemble of clothing had been replaced by a gray jumpsuit that seemed disturbingly similar to a prison uniform. But that wasn't what had arrested his attention so thoroughly. That honor was reserved for his hair... or lack thereof. His tall, wildly spiked coif had been shaved into a precise, military-style buzz cut.

Darien tapped his fist on the glass to get his captors' attention and yelled, "You coulda just sent me to the barber's!" He knew that his current situation suggested there was a lot more going on than a mere haircut, but that didn't mean he wasn't royally pissed. His hair was an extension of himself, an expression of who he was. It was the living embodiment of his devil-may-care attitude, and he was furious about the fact that it had been mown down to mere stubble. 

Darien whirled around as he heard the door to the padded room swing open. The man who had abducted Darien earlier walked into the room, straightening his tie in a business-like manner.

Darien placed his hands on his hips and glared at the man, his entire posture screaming enraged defiance. "Alright, three questions: what's your name, who are you workin' for, and why've you got me decked out like an inmate?"

The man smirked and made a minor adjustment to his sunglasses. "You know that I don't have to answer any of your questions."

Darien inclined his head to the right. "Yeah, but I have the feeling you're gonna answer anyway."

The man nodded. "Very good. In answer to your first question, you may call me Smyth."

"Smith?" Darien wrinkled his nose with distaste as he purposely mispronounced the name. "Don't you think that's a little too overdone?"

Smyth gave Darien an irritated look. "Not Smith. Smyth. There's a difference between the two names, just as there's a difference between Fox and Fawkes."

Darien crossed his arms. "Yeah, whatever. You gonna answer question number two?"

Smyth allowed a small grin to play across his face. "You'll find out the answer to that soon enough."

"And the prison-style fashion statement?" Darien asked, gesturing at his clothes.

Smyth shrugged. "It better suited our purposes than your rather questionable choice of attire."

"So you shave my head, you steal my clothes.... What're you gonna do next, put a collar around my neck and teach me to play fetch?"

Jared Stark walked into the room, an amused grin on his face. "You're only half-wrong."

Darien's eyes widened momentarily and then narrowed again as a deep frown crossed his face. "I should've known you'd be behind this. This whole thing just reeks of Chrysalis."

Stark chuckled and gave Darien an enigmatic smile. "You might be surprised."

Darien glared harshly at Stark. "Look, I am not gonna be your trained poodle. So whatever nasty scheme you've dreamed up in that sick little mind of yours, you might as well shove it."

Stark seemed completely unfazed by Darien's comments. "On the contrary, Darien. I believe this will work out wonderfully." He snapped his fingers and two men in hospital scrubs walked into the room. One of them held a large metal band studded with metallic spikes.

The two men began to advance on Darien, who took a few instinctive steps backward, eyeing the metal band nervously. "OK, what the hell is that thing?"

Stark glanced over at the orderlies and gave a brief nod. The two men abruptly leapt forward and wrestled Darien to the ground, wrapping the metal band tightly around his neck. Darien nearly gagged as the metal studs bit into his flesh. Stark smiled. "Well, you did mention a collar..."

The two men stepped back once they had finished their job. Darien stood angrily to his feet, running a hand across the foreign object that had been wrapped around his neck. "Ya know, I think they put this thing on wrong... the studs are a lot prettier when they're on the outside." He reached his hands around to the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to detach the offending object.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Smyth said, pulling a small remote control out of his pocket.

Darien sneered. "Oh, now I get it, this thing is some big antenna," he said, fingering the metal band around his neck. "You gonna stick with the local channels or are you gonna plug me into the wall so you can get cable?"

Smyth's only reply was to push a finger down on one of the buttons. Searing pain immediately shot through all of Darien's limbs, emanating from the collar around his neck. He yelped and fell to his hands and knees, trying to ride out the sudden wave of agony.

After what seemed like forever Smyth took his finger from the button and the pain stopped. Darien sagged to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut from the residual pain and gasping for breath.

Stark walked over to Darien and simpered, "As you can see, it would be in your best interests to cooperate. I think I'll leave you and Smyth alone... the two of you need to have some face-time." He turned and walked out of the room, followed by the two orderlies. The door swung shut behind them.

Darien groaned and started to get up, but another wave of pain radiated from the collar, knocking him back to the ground. When it finally subsided he glared up at Smyth. "You're havin' fun with this, aren't ya?"

Smyth walked over and bent down so that his face was only a few feet away from Darien's. "Actually, this is the least enjoyable part of my job. The fun parts come later."

"Later? Like after I'm cooked like a turkey?" Darien asked sarcastically.

"Like after you're broken," Smyth said in a cold tone.

"What, you're gonna torture me?" Darien rolled his eyes with false bravado. "C'mon man, I probably know less about the Agency than you do."

"Information is not the goal here. The goal is very simple." Smyth straightened up to his full height, towering over Darien. "I'm going to put you through obedience school." He turned, walked over to the door, and rapped three times on the window. The door swung open and, as soon as he had walked out, swung shut again with a resounding thud.

Darien lay on the floor, too sore to get up. Stark was up to something, there was no doubt of that. What exactly, Darien didn't know, but he had the feeling he didn't want to find out. Whatever was going on here, he would have to fight it until Hobbes and the others were able to rescue him. Hopefully, the wait wouldn't be long.

**********

Hobbes stood in the Agency parking lot, tapping his foot impatiently. He looked at his watch, then frowned and uttered a wordless growl. He had thought for sure that Darien would have come into the Agency by now, probably without his hair cut, but at least with a little more willingness to compromise. And yet it was almost three in the afternoon, and Darien was still nowhere to be seen. Hobbes briefly entertained the notion that Darien had snuck into the Agency using the quicksilver, but then shrugged it off. There was no reason for such underhanded techniques in this case; Darien would have been far more likely to simply walk in the door.

So something was wrong. Something had happened, something drastic enough to keep Darien from coming in to work. Maybe his car hadn't started? No, he would have called. Maybe he'd slept in? Again, he would have at least called. Maybe he was lying in an alley somewhere, unconscious or worse. Maybe he'd had a car accident and was dead or in the hospital. Whatever the maybe, the only ones that made sense were the ones that involved Darien being injured, unconscious, or stashed in the morgue.

Hobbes whipped out his cell phone and dialed Darien's phone number for the sixth time that day. And, like the five times before, he received no answer. He let out a yell of frustration and threw his cell phone to the ground, watching as it cracked open and spilled electronic pieces all over the ground. A small warning voice in the back of his brain noted that the Official wouldn't be happy about that, not at all, but he ignored it. This was more important than cell phones. Something was wrong, and he was damn well going to find out what it was.

Hobbes walked over to Golda and unlocked her driver's side door, climbing in and placing his keys in the ignition. "Fawkes, you'd better just be sleeping in," he muttered.

After several irritating minutes of trying to navigate his way through the San Diego traffic, Hobbes finally pulled the van into the parking lot for Darien's apartment. He sighed in relief as he saw Darien's car parked in the far corner of the lot. "Well, so far so good...." He parked Golda near Darien's car and, after making a brief inspection of the smaller vehicle to see if it had any flat tires, began the trek up to Darien's apartment.

Hobbes paused in front of the apartment door, debating on whether to knock or just force the door open. After a moment he decided Darien would prefer a little noise to having his apartment broken into. "Fawkes," he grumbled in aggravation, "open up the door!" He pounded on the door with the flat of his palm. When that got no reaction he began to hammer on it with the butt of his gun. He raised an eyebrow when he still received no response. "OK, that's not good at all."

Hobbes reached out a hand and experimentally twisted the doorknob. It was locked. Hobbes frowned. Darien very rarely locked his door when he was home. In Hobbes' opinion, this didn't bode well for his partner's well being. He didn't even pause to think twice before he turned off the safety of his gun and blew the lock off Darien's doorknob. "Sorry partner, but it's for your own good," he apologized as he kicked open the door and walked inside, peering around the room as worry churned in the pit of his stomach. There was no sign of Darien anywhere. No jacket flung haphazardly on the couch, no dishes in the sink... the apartment was too clean to suggest that anyone had actually spent time there over the weekend.

"Well, crap," Hobbes hissed. He began to methodically go through Darien's apartment, looking for any details he might have missed that would indicate Darien had been there recently. However, the search only served to confirm his suspicions. There was no doubt about it; Darien was gone. There were no signs of a struggle, but there were also no signs that he had packed up and left of his own accord. "OK, inviso-boy," Hobbes mused, pacing back and forth, "where have you disappeared to this time?"


	3. 3

Hobbes sat on a chair in the Official's office and silently bemoaned the fact that he had neglected to bring a bottle of Tylenol in with him. He had informed the Official of Darien's disappearance and the Official had promptly gone postal, barking admonishments and orders to Hobbes for the better part of an hour. 

"I want Fawkes found, now!" The Official growled, slamming a hand down on his desk.

Hobbes raised a hand to his temples in a futile attempt to ward off his headache. "Yes sir, but you have to understand, there are no leads-"

The Official leaned forward and said menacingly, "I don't give a damn about leads. I want Fawkes in my office, with a decent explanation for his disappearance, or I will personally see to it that his paycheck has a few less zeros on it."

Hobbes' brow lowered. The Official's reactions thus far seemed to indicate that he thought Darien had just packed up and left like some rebellious teenager. Darien might have done something like that when he first came to the Agency, but Hobbes fully believed that such a thing would never happen now. "He coulda been nabbed by some of Arnaud's goons," He said in his partner's defense, giving the Official an angry look.

"And there's also the possibility that he just decided to hitchhike across the country without bothering to inform us," the Official snapped. "I don't care whether he's here or in Alaska. If you don't find him, and soon, you're going to find yourself out of a job."

Hobbes stood up, an infuriated expression on his face. "You don't need to threaten me, sir. If Fawkes is out there, I'll find him." He just hoped he wouldn't find Darien's body washed up on the San Diego beach. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a search to organize," he continued, standing to his feet. "Oh, and sir? With all due respect, go screw yourself." He hurried out the door before the Official recovered enough to reply.

**********

Darien curled up listlessly in a corner of the padded room. He didn't know how long he had been there for sure; the lights never went out, so it was impossible to distinguish day from night. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he had a great deal of stubble on his chin, which seemed to indicate he had occupied the room for at least a week, maybe longer. But he was unable to think clearly enough to attempt to pinpoint the exact timeframe.

Darien squeezed his eyes shut and began to absently rock back and forth as he tried to push the memories of the last few days out of his mind. It was all a thick haze of questions and his refusal to answer them, orders and his refusal to obey them, and pain. Lots of pain.

And Hobbes hadn't come. He had been so sure Hobbes would come....

Darien took a shaky breath and reached up to run a hand through his hair, momentarily puzzled as his hand brushed through close-clipped fuzz instead of thick, gravity-defying locks. His hand traveled downward and back, searching for the familiar feeling that had been lost, and eventually bumped against the metal collar that rested on the nape of his neck. He immediately jerked his hand away, hissing slightly in anticipation of pain. It didn't come this time, but he knew it would if he so much as allowed his hand to stray near the collar again.

_Come on Hobbes_, Darien thought as he wrapped his arms around his chest and bit back a quiet sob, _you'd better get me out of here soon. I won't be able to hold out much longer._

**********

Stark looked up and smiled amicably as Smyth walked into the room. He indicated that Smyth could take a seat and then asked casually, "So, how is it going?"

Smyth took a seat and folded his hands in front of him, pursing his lips. "The electroshock collar and the drugs we've been slipping into his food are beginning to take their toll. He should be ready to begin phase two of the program within a week."

Stark's brow furrowed. "A week?"

Smyth shrugged. "If we're lucky, maybe five days."

Stark leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips for a moment in consideration. Then he looked back up at Smyth. "Increase the drug dosage. I want him ready in three days."

Smyth leaned forward, his posture rigid with protest. "Sir, you can't rush these things. One wrong move and we could drive him insane. We could ruin him for life."

"I don't care about his life," Stark growled. "He must begin his training as soon as possible. I don't care if he hops on one foot and crows like a rooster, so long as he takes orders and kills whoever I tell him to."

Smyth's jaw tightened and for a moment he looked as if he was about to refuse, but then he stood to his feet and inclined his head in a quick nod. "Very well." He spun on his heel and walked out of the room, an expression of intense displeasure on his face.

Stark leaned further back in his office chair and drummed his fingertips together, meditating on all that had happened to him over the past two years. Until recently he had been a man of power, a man with the world, or at least the western United States, at his fingertips. Darien Fawkes had changed all that, shredding years of careful planning to pieces thanks to the biosynthetic gland that had been inserted in his skull. Stark had been on the road to power before then. And now... now he would soon be moving upward again, due to the very man who had been responsible for his downfall.

Stark allowed himself a smile. He was going to be the first man in the history of the world to own an invisible assassin.

**********

Hobbes drove the van anxiously down the highway toward Cold Springs, California. Claire had volunteered to accompany him, since she wanted to find Darien as much as he did, not to mention the fact that the trip would take at least eleven hours and she felt Hobbes would need someone to keep him company. Hobbes got the feeling that Claire also wanted to go to keep an eye on him. She had seemed worried about him the last few days, although he couldn't see why.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly with one hand as he drove, running the other hand across his face in an attempt to keep alert, his fingers tingling from the two days' stubble that grazed his jaw. But he barely noticed the rough, sandpaper-feel on his skin; he was too caught up in his thoughts -- thoughts of Darien. Where had he gone? Why had he, both figuratively and literally, disappeared? There were no clues, not a single hint as to Darien's whereabouts. For all Hobbes knew, he might as well have been abducted by aliens.

Hobbes was drawn out of his trance as he felt a feminine hand touch his shoulder. He turned his head to the side, glancing over at Claire, who looked distinctly worried. "Are you alright?" she asked, her British accent carrying an undertone of concern.

Hobbes gave her a wan smile. "I'm fine, I'm...." he sighed and bit his lip. "I just... I just don't know what to do." He looked away, afraid his eyes would betray just how lost he truly felt. "I mean, the trail's cold. Fawkes coulda left -- been taken," he corrected himself quickly, unwilling to believe that Darien would just leave with no explanation, "any time between when he left the Agency and when I went over to his apartment." He shook his head, trying to focus on the road. "It's been a week. A whole damn week. Fawkes could be in China for all we know. He could be... he could be..." he trailed off, unwilling to say the word 'dead'.

Claire leaned her head against Hobbes' shoulder, wrapping one arm around him in a consoling manner. "We'll find him, Bobby."

Hobbes stared out at the road, Claire's attempts to comfort him easing the emotional turmoil he was going through by only a small fraction. His jaw tightened as he said in a lifeless tone, "Yeah... but when?"

**********

Smyth watched through the one-way mirror as Darien scrambled around his cell in an animalistic frenzy. His eyes were glazed with drugs and wide with terror. He slammed first into one padded wall and then another as if searching for a way out, any way out. Eventually he slammed into the one-way mirror and sank to the ground, whimpering and curling up in the fetal position.

"Damnit, I warned you this might happen," Smyth rumbled angrily, glaring over at Stark, who stood beside him and had been watching the entire scene nonchalantly. "The dosage was too high, he's completely irrational. He's doing better than I would have thought, considering the amounts of drugs floating around in his system, but if we push him too far he could lose all touch with reality."

"Will he still be able to function?" Stark asked. His expression didn't reveal even a hint of emotion.

"Yes," Smyth replied reluctantly, "at least for the most part."

Stark nodded. "Good. You may proceed with phase two."

"But sir!" Smyth exclaimed, giving his boss a disbelieving look, "If we begin to program him now, he'll-"

Stark held up a hand. "Don't bother yourself with worries about Fawkes' personal well-being. Just make him quiet, obedient, and deadly." Before Smyth could protest, Stark walked out of the room.

Smyth leaned forward so he could get a better look at the shaking figure huddled on the floor, then shook his head. He knew he was supposed to maintain an enormous level of professional detachment, but Stark's orders had caused even Smyth's infinitesimal conscience to rear its head. Not that he intended to listen to it, but it was there. And it wouldn't stop niggling at him as he walked out of the observation room and began to think about the best way to proceed with phase two of Darien's programming.


	4. 4

The Official was true to his word. Two weeks after Darien's disappearance, Hobbes found himself out of a job. This didn't dampen Hobbes' search for his missing friend, however; it merely spurred him on harder. There was rarely a waking moment when he wasn't trying to come up with some new way to find Darien's whereabouts. 

The only thing that kept him sane during the three weeks after his dismissal from the Agency was Claire. She came over whenever she could to offer her opinions on Hobbes' ideas, to tell him ideas of her own, to actually help him think of something besides his partner's disappearance for a while, and to make sure he took the time to eat, sleep, and take his pills. She was the one spot of calm in Hobbes' stormy life, and he appreciated it beyond words.

And then one day, five weeks after Darien's disappearance, the phone rang.

Hobbes and Claire were eating Chinese take-out and animatedly discussing the merits of classic horror films when the phone's loud trill echoed through the room. Hobbes picked it up, saying absently, "Hobbes."

"Yes, I know that, you idiot. Do you have any idea how long it took me to get this phone number?"

Hobbes frowned as he recognized the all too familiar Swiss-French accent. "Whaddaya want, Arnaud?" Claire looked up in surprise, her chopstick-wielding hand coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of a trip between the container of Lo Mein on her lap and her mouth.

"I have some information you might find useful."

"Such as?" Hobbes tensed, waiting for Arnaud to reply.

Arnaud heaved a deep sigh and then said in a resigned manner, "I know where you can find Fawkes."

Hobbes couldn't help the snort of disbelieving laughter that escaped him. "That's funny, I thought you just said you knew where I could find Fawkes."

"I can assure you, for once your ears are not deceiving you."

Hobbes' eyes widened and he turned to Claire, frantically motioning for her to fetch her a pencil and a piece of paper. Claire shoved her container of take-out onto the coffee table and began to search the room for the requested items. Hobbes turned his attention back to the telephone, saying suspiciously, "So you know he's missing?"

"I've known for quite some time," Arnaud said impatiently.

"Then why bother telling us now? Hell, why even bother telling us in the first place?"

"Because, while I may harbor a deep hatred for your erstwhile partner, I care more about my own survival."

Hobbes frowned. "Is that why he left? To find you?"

Now it was Arnaud's turn to let out a disbelieving snort. "Hardly. He was kidnapped by Chrysalis. Or rather, one particular member of Chrysalis you and Fawkes seem to know very well."

Hobbes' frown deepened. "Stark?"

"Ahh, so you do have some small measure of intelligence after all." Hobbes could practically see the smirk on Arnaud's face. "From what I have been able to gather, Stark wants to turn Fawkes into an assassin."

Hobbes shook his head. "Fawkes would never go along with that. He'd die first."

"You'd be surprised the lengths to which a man will go to ensure his own survival," Arnaud said coldly. "My informants tell me he has just finished the final stages of his training, and Stark is eager to put him to use."

Hobbes smirked. "So you think big bad Stark's gonna sic Fawkesy on you, huh?"

"Not right away, he has at least one target that he intends to take care of first. However, I would be very surprised if I was not rather high on his list."

Claire positioned a piece of paper and a pencil on Hobbes' lap, then asked, "What's going on?"

Hobbes held up a finger for silence and said, "So why're you giving us this info? Why don't you just go after Stark yourself?"

Arnaud laughed. "Oh please, you don't think I'm foolish enough to go up against Chrysalis directly. Only you would be idiotic enough to try that."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Hobbes said sarcastically. "OK, so where is he?" He held his breath, anxiously awaiting the reply.

"I don't know where Fawkes is right now, I've been unable to locate the facility Stark is keeping him. However, in two days a woman is going to be taking over Stark's old position in the Chrysalis hierarchy. There is a ninety-five percent chance that she is going to be Fawkes' first target."

Hobbes ran his tongue across his teeth, assimilating this information. "Huh. I need an address." Arnaud quickly rattled off an address and Hobbes scrawled it down, his heartbeat accelerating as he stared at the no longer blank piece of paper. "I can't believe I'm about to say this," Hobbes grimaced as he struggled to get the words out, "but thank you."

"Please, spare me your paltry attempts at gratitude," Arnaud hissed vituperatively. A loud click, followed by the harsh noise of a dial tone in Hobbes' ear, alerted him to the fact that Arnaud had hung up.

Hobbes slowly placed the handset of the telephone down on its base, staring incredulously at the piece of paper in his hand. Claire placed a hand on his arm, confusion on her face. Hobbes realized that Claire had only heard the tail end of the conversation, and even then she'd only been able to hear his half. It was no wonder that she seemed puzzled. He looked over at her, a slow grin spreading across his face, and then wrapped her up in a tight hug. "We're gonna find him," he whispered quietly, his voice catching in his throat. "I know where to find him."

**********

Two days later, Hobbes was nowhere near as happy with the situation. "Crap," he grumbled as he pulled up in front of the building that was allegedly a front for Chrysalis. The building was huge, a towering mass of glass and metal. He had studied the layout as carefully as he could, but it was simply too large for him to predict where Darien would be headed, if he was coming at all. The best Hobbes could do was to stake out the entrance wearing a thermal headset and hope Darien decided to use the front door.

The endless monotone orange and red colors that represented people walking up and down the sidewalk gradually began to blur together before Hobbes' weary eyes. The only thing that kept him from going out in search of a cup of coffee was the thought that Darien might slip past while he was gone.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it: a brief flash of green in the orange and red sea. Hobbes hurriedly scrambled out of the van as the bright green figure walked purposefully into an alley that ran parallel to the building. Hardly daring to believe his eyes, he whispered, "Fawkes?" Then he hurried down the alley just in time to see the figure slip into a small side door of the building next to the one Arnaud had given him the address of.

The next few minutes consisted mostly of trying to keep up with the figure as it navigated its way through the building, which seemed to be for the most part abandoned. Hobbes sighed with relief when the figure finally came to a stop in front of a large window. "Fawkes?" The figure didn't even seem to notice that he was there. Instead, it reached into what Hobbes assumed was its jacket and pulled out what looked, despite the green silhouette the quicksilver created, to be a sniper's rifle.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes yelled, this time in disbelief. He rushed forward and grabbed the invisible figure's arm, pushing it down and throwing off his aim. The figure abruptly shed its icy coating, turning from a bright green to a much more normal orange. Hobbes whipped off the thermal headgear just in time to see Darien Fawkes whip around and aim what was indeed a sniper's rifle directly at his chest.

It took Hobbes a full thirty seconds to recognize his one-time partner. Darien's face was drawn and pale. He had dark circles under his eyes. His hair had been sheered into a sharp military buzz-cut. The look wasn't at all flattering; it gave the impression that his head was covered by nothing more than brown fluff. But worst of all were his eyes. Those once-sparkling brown orbs had lost their luster. They were now filled with pain, sadness, and a chilling emptiness that sent a shiver down Hobbes' spine.

Darien's eyes showed only the barest flicker of recognition as he looked down at Hobbes. Hobbes held up his hands, his face etched with worry. "Fawkes, it's me, couldja put down the gun?" Darien made no move to do as Hobbes requested. "Fawkes?" Hobbes asked, his tone uncertain.

Darien gave a brief shake of his head and said flatly, "Not anymore."


	5. 5

Hobbes looked at Darien with growing horror as he realized that his one-time partner looked more than a little trigger-happy at the moment and did not seem particularly averse to shooting him on the spot. "Look, Fawkes... Darien," he said, hoping that the use of his friend's first name would help convey the gravity of the situation, "I'm here to help you. Just put down the gun, we can leave together." 

Darien laughed bitterly and reached up with one hand to tug down the neckline of the shirt he was wearing, revealing a large metal band wrapped around his neck. "You don't get it, Hobbes. I can't leave."

Hobbes' eyes narrowed. "Interesting fashion statement, but it doesn't suit ya."

He was expecting Darien to come up with some witty retort. However, Darien only looked down at the ground for a moment and then turned his attention back to the window, through which Hobbes could just barely make out the forms of a dozen figures sitting around a desk in one of the offices of the building next door.

Hobbes placed a hand on the gun barrel and pushed it down firmly. "Fawkes, don't do this."

"I have to," Darien said, raising his gun and aiming it shakily at the window. "They make me."

Hobbes frowned. "Stark?"

"And Smyth. And the others." Darien glanced around the room in a paranoid fashion.

Hobbes started to ask who 'the others' were, but stopped as he heard the sound of footsteps coming sharply up the hall. Darien's eyes widened and he hurriedly placed a hand on Hobbes' arm. Hobbes shivered as he felt the quicksilver rush over his body, coating him in a thin sheath and rendering him invisible to the naked eye. It had been too long since he had felt the quicksilver covering him; he wasn't used to it any more. Not that he'd ever really been used to it in the first place, but he had been able to dampen his instinctive reaction.

A giant of a man stepped into view, clad in a dark suit and sunglasses. He certainly seemed like Chrysalis material. Darien's demeanor promptly became meeker as the man came into sight -- subservient, even. Hobbes bit back the curse that threatened to erupt from his throat. What could have happened to Darien that would cause such a drastic change in his behavior?

"Why haven't you completed your mission?" the man in the suit barked, his booming voice a harsh change from the tense silence that had permeated the air.

"I... I was hearing the voices again." Darien's grip on Hobbes' arm tightened.

"Inexcusable. Complete your mission." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a device that reminded Hobbes of the remote control for his television set. Darien seemed extremely disturbed by the sight of the remote; he tensed, his back going rigid, his hands shaking. He seemed to be anticipating something, and whatever it was didn't look to be pleasant.

Darien took his hand off Hobbes' arm just as the man in the suit pressed one of the buttons on the remote. He promptly fell to the ground, gasping in pain and instinctively clasping at the cause of it: the metal band wrapped around his neck. Hobbes stared in shock at Darien for a split second. Then his protective instincts kicked in and he drew his gun, realizing as he did so that since he couldn't see his own hands there was no way he was going to be able to aim anywhere near accurately. But that became a moot point as the quicksilver flaked off of him, leaving him in plain sight of the suit-clad man, who looked appropriately startled.

Before the man had time to react Hobbes took aim and fired, shooting the man in the middle of his chest. The man fell to the ground, dead, and landed atop the hand that held the remote. Darien let out an agonized scream as the pain he was experiencing reached a new level. Hobbes swore and rushed over to the dead man, hurriedly rolling him over and yanking the remote control from his grasp. Darien went limp. Hobbes dropped the remote to the floor and emptied the rest of his clip into the small piece of machinery. Darien jerked spasmodically and then lay still.

Hobbes took a ragged breath and then walked over to his fallen friend. He holstered his gun and bent down to remove the offending collar from Darien's neck, but as his hand brushed against the metal Darien's hands shot upward, closing around Hobbes' neck. Hobbes' eyes widened. He had barely even seen Darien move.

"Fawkes..." he croaked, his voice hoarse from lack of air. Darien's eyes flew open. He stared up at Hobbes uncomprehendingly for a moment, then slowly released his grip. Hobbes reached down, much more carefully this time, to remove the collar, but Darien stayed his hand. "It's alright," Hobbes soothed, "it's not gonna hurt you again."

Darien looked over at the dead man, then at the bullet-ridden remote. "He's dead..." Darien breathed, disbelief clearly evident on his features. "He's actually dead."

"Yeah, a bullet to the chest tends to have that effect," Hobbes deadpanned.

"You never killed him before," Darien said, confusion echoing on his face.

Hobbes frowned at Darien's comment, but decided that now was not the time to ask questions. "Let's get this thing off, OK?" He pointed toward the collar around Darien's neck.

"OK," Darien nodded, a dazed expression on his face.

"You wanna do it, or should I?" Hobbes asked gently.

"I'll do it...." Darien mumbled. He made no move to take off the collar.

Hobbes waited for a long moment. "You're not moving."

"I know," Darien whispered.

Hobbes shook his head and helped Darien to his feet. "C'mon, we've gotta get outta here, they'll probably send someone else over to check on ya."

Darien shook his head in bewilderment as Hobbes helped him down the hall. "It never happened this way before...."

**********

The trip back to the Agency was made in silence, punctuated by the occasional worried glances Hobbes shot in Darien's direction. There was nothing he wanted more than to talk to his partner at the moment, to actually hold a conversation like they used to be able to before Darien's abduction. But he had the feeling that, even if he were able to think of something to say, Darien would be unwilling or unable to come up with an answer.

Hobbes' logic was fairly sound, and not without reason; Darien appeared to be in a state of shock. He wrapped his arms around his chest and stared straight ahead, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Every few minutes he squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, looking around as if he expected everything to have vanished.

When Hobbes pulled Golda up in front of the Harding building, Darien blinked several times in rapid succession, his voice cracking as he asked more than stated, "We're here?"

"We're here," Hobbes confirmed, turning the keys in the ignition and stepping out of the van. He paused for a moment and then walked over to open the passenger door, since Darien showed no signs of getting out of the van if left to his own devices.

"We're here," Darien breathed, his eyes showing the closest thing to a spark of life that Hobbes had glimpsed in them all day.

Hobbes nodded and carefully undid Darien's seatbelt, as he would have a small child's. "C'mon partner, let's get you down to the Keep," he said, gently placing a hand on Darien's shoulder. Darien allowed Hobbes to guide him out of the van and into the Agency, drinking everything in as if he had never seen it before... or had never expected to see it again.

Hobbes held Darien's arm in a gentle but firm grip as he maneuvered through the halls, walking at a clipped pace and ignoring the strange looks the Agency personnel were casting in his and Darien's direction. He rounded the corner that led to the Keeper's lab and came a fraction of an inch away from colliding with Eberts.

Eberts stepped back, gave Hobbes an admonishing look and said, "Robert, the Official made it quite clear that you were no longer supposed to visit Claire during work hours..." he trailed off, his eyes widening as he realized who Hobbes had in tow. "Oh my God, I... Darien?" he exclaimed excitedly. "This is wonderful! I... I have to tell the Official. I have to tell the Official...." Before Hobbes could stop him, Eberts was gone.

"Great, teacher's pet is off to tell the schoolmaster...." Hobbes muttered a curse under his breath. He didn't want the Official to know that Darien had been found yet. Darien just stared in the direction Eberts had gone, a puzzled expression on his face. Hobbes renewed his grip on Darien's arm and dragged him the rest of the way to the lab, pounding firmly on the door since he didn't have a keycard.

The door swung open and Claire looked out, her exasperated expression turning to hope as she saw Hobbes and then elated joy as she saw Darien. She leapt forward, wrapping Darien up in a tight hug. "Oh my God, you're here, you're really here! We've been looking everywhere for you, we were so worried...." Claire took Darien's hand and pulled him into the lab, not noticing that his face was now showing borderline panic. "Are you alright? Where were you? Why--"

"Stop!" Darien yelped, jerking out of Claire's grasp. He sank to the floor in a corner of the room and pulled his knees up to his chest, whispering, "Just stop."

Claire turned to Hobbes, her face etched with worry. "What happened?"

Hobbes shook his head, now wishing that he had more clearly informed Claire on what Arnaud had told him. He hadn't gone into much detail at the time, not wanting to raise her hopes any more than necessary, and now he was regretting it. "He.... Chrysalis had him."

Claire paled. "All this time?" Hobbes nodded solemnly. "Oh my God, what did they do to him?" Claire gasped, one hand coming up to cover her mouth as she looked over at Darien, who was rocking back and forth with his eyes pressed shut, mumbling something too quietly for the others to hear.

Hobbes looked over at Darien and shook his head despondently. "I don't know. I don't know...."


	6. 6

The Official stood outside the Keeper's lab, an infuriated scowl on his face. Hobbes stood in front of him, arms stubbornly crossed, and had been refusing him entrance for the last fifteen minutes. "I want to see him," the Official growled menacingly. Both men knew exactly whom the Official meant. 

"No can do, chief," Hobbes said firmly. He didn't budge an inch.

The Official leaned forward so that he and Hobbes were practically eye-to-eye. "You may not work here anymore, but I can still make your life miserable. I want to see him. NOW."

Hobbes' jaw jutted out stubbornly. "I just dragged his ass back from Chrysalis. He's not ready to see anybody but the Keeper."

The Official's eyes narrowed. The way Hobbes was acting suggested that Darien was severely injured. "You're not getting your job back just because you brought him here. I wanted you to bring him back in good condition, not as damaged goods."

"That's all he's ever been to you, isn't it? A receptacle, an invisible ace in the hole. Well, I've had it up to here with that attitude." Hobbes waved his hand approximately a foot above his head in an indication of his level of frustration. "The only way you're getting in there is over my dead body, and I don't think that is something you can legally accomplish under the circumstances."

The Official glared at Hobbes for a long moment. "This isn't over, Hobbes. This is far from over." He turned and barreled off in the direction of his office, debating on which means of punishment would be most fitting for his ex-agent.

**********

Stark glared down at Smyth's dead body, his emotions roiling. Darien had escaped. And it appeared he had killed his handler, as well. How had this happened? Smyth had claimed he was broken, not to mention mentally unstable. He was supposedly incapable of something like this.

And yet, he had done it. He had managed to break his programming and escape, and he had destroyed Stark's only means of control over him in the process. This was clearly evident by the completely demolished remote control that lay a few feet from Smyth's limp hand.

There was a backup remote, of course. But it had a very limited range of usability, only a thousand feet. And Stark had not thought it necessary to keep Darien fitted with a tracking device, because he had seemed completely obedient in every way, and hadn't seemed to entertain any thoughts of escape.

But, obviously, Stark had been mistaken about that. He snarled and bent down to pick up the bullet-ridden remote, crushing it in his grip. The pain the jagged bits of metal caused him was nothing compared to the pain he was going to inflict on Darien after he got him back. And he would get Darien back, of that he was certain.

He turned and glared over at the myriad of underlings that were milling around the corridor, barking, "Clean this up!" He dropped the destroyed remote to the ground and began to pace slowly, wondering where Darien would have gone. His first instincts were that Darien would have returned to the Agency, but then again that might be exactly what Darien wanted him to think. He would certainly investigate the matter, but he would keep his mind open to other possibilities as well. Sooner or later, he would get his hands back on Darien. And then the sparks would fly.

**********

Once Hobbes was certain that the Official wasn't going to come back, he tapped out the code for Claire to let him into the lab. The door swished open a few seconds later and he walked into the room. "How is he?" Hobbes asked, gesturing at Darien.

Claire absently nibbled on her lip as she said in a similar tone, "It's hard to tell, he won't let me near him. He's suffering from shock, I can tell that just by looking at him... this was probably too much for him to take in, all in one day." Her brow wrinkled as she continued, "I'm trying to figure out what that thing around his neck is, but...."

"I think it's what they used to try and control him with," Hobbes said, his voice taking on an icy timbre. "There was a remote thingy that went with it. This guy pressed a button and Fawkes started actin' as if someone had set his pants on fire."

Claire promptly went into scientist mode. "Hmm, maybe it stimulates the pain receptors, or emits some sort of electric shock. I won't know for sure until I get a closer look." She glanced over at Hobbes. "Did you get the remote? A device like the one you described would probably have a limited range, but still...."

"I shot it," Hobbes said sheepishly. Claire raised an eyebrow. Hobbes shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Claire rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue in a teasingly reproachful manner, and then looked over at Darien. "I'm worried about him." She sighed. "The physical damage I can take care of, but the psychological damage... that will be harder."

Hobbes scratched his ear, squirming uncomfortably. "Just don't send him to the nuthouse or anything, and he'll be fine. I'm tellin' ya, I came out of that place more messed up than I went in." Claire gave Hobbes a questioning look, but before she could say anything Darien began to whisper to himself again, causing both of his friends to automatically shift their gaze in his direction. "He'll be alright," Hobbes insisted, attempting to convince himself as much as Claire. "He has to be."

**********

They were there. Darien had hoped they would go away, that they would leave him alone now that Hobbes had come -- for real, this time -- but the voices were still there, taunting him, laughing at him, whispering in his ear that this was all just a trick like the last time and the time before that and the time before that, never mind that this time the charade was lasting longer.

Darien didn't want to believe the voices; a part of him knew they weren't real. But another part of him insisted that yes, they were, and they just might be right.

"Shut up," Darien told the voices. "Shut up and leave me alone."

_Make us_, they replied.

"I will. I will," Darien insisted, bound and determined to do so, but the voices just laughed.

_You can't make us leave. You can't do anything anymore. You're nothing but a gutless coward._

Darien bit back a sob and said harshly, "Leave me alone!"

"Sorry partner, but we ain't goin' nowhere." It took Darien a few seconds to realize that it was Hobbes, not the voices, that had spoken.

"Is this real?" Darien asked, looking up at Hobbes and Claire with a pleading expression on his face. He had had his hopes dashed to the ground so many times in the past... how long had it been, anyway? A month? Two? It had seemed like forever. Over time all hope had vanished, replaced by the simple knowledge that he would never escape, that he would be trapped in that Chrysalis hellhole until the day he died. Now, there was a possibility that the nightmare might be over. And while he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it just yet, he desperately wanted to.

Claire squatted down in front of Darien, placing her hands on her knees, looking at him earnestly. "Of course it's real, sweetheart."

_She's lying_, the voices spat. _You know she's lying._

"Shut up," Darien mumbled again under his breath.

Hobbes bent down, concern clearly evident on his features. "You need anything, partner? I can get you some food or something."

Darien couldn't remember the last time he'd really had any sort of appetite. Smyth's underlings had had to force-feed him more often than not, because he had refused to eat. "No, I'm not hungry..." Darien ran a hand over his face, "I'm just tired." He looked up at Hobbes and Claire and asked timidly, "Can I go home now?"

Claire shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea right now, Darien. I need to check you over first, make sure you're alright." She gave him an apologetic look. "There's a bed in lab three, would you mind resting there?"

Darien's heart sank; he had been hoping Claire would allow him to go home. But he merely nodded and mumbled, "OK." It was easier to follow orders right now than to try and think for himself.

"You'll probably be able to sleep better without that thing around your neck," Hobbes said pointedly.

Darien's hand automatically strayed upward to the collar, but stopped a fraction of an inch away from the cold metal. If this were a dream, or a hallucination, or a test, like the voices kept insisting, then any attempt to remove the collar would be met by agonizing pain and the end of the illusion. And whether this was real or not, he didn't want it to end.

Darien lowered his hand again, trying to ignore the look of disappointment on Hobbes' face. "It'll be fine... I just wanna lay down."

Claire nodded, staring at Darien with a piercing gaze. "Alright, come with me." She led Darien out of the lab and down the hall, then swiped a keycard through another door and led him into a small room that did indeed have a bed. Darien collapsed onto it wearily, trying to ignore the voices as they plagued him with their usual cacophony of riotous laughter and deceitful whispers. He finally fell into a fitful slumber, his brow knitted with tension, his body automatically curling up into the fetal position.


	7. 7

_Darien looked up as Smyth stepped into the room and promptly leapt to his feet, backing up against the nearest wall. "No. No!" he yelled, unwilling to believe his eyes. "You're dead." _

_Smyth grinned nastily. "Are you so sure?"_

_"I saw Hobbes kill you."_

_Smyth tilted his head to the side. "Oh you did, did you?" He stepped aside, revealing a dead body lying on the ground behind him. A body that looked very much like...._

_"Hobbes." Darien felt a lump welling up in his throat. He rushed over to the side of his fallen partner, grief etched across his features. It was just like all the other times. Hobbes was dead. Smyth had survived. Darien had been a fool to think it could happen otherwise._

_"You are a failure," Smyth sneered. "You failed to complete your mission. You failed to protect your friend." He pulled out a gun and aimed it at Darien's chest as he calmly stated, "You don't deserve to live."_

_Then he pulled the trigger._

Darien gave out an involuntary jerk as he woke, losing his balance and falling off the bed. He glanced around wildly, unsure of where he was, and pulled away violently when someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Fawkes!"

The voice cut through his panic, jutting into the forefront of his brain. Hobbes. The voice belonged to Hobbes.

"Fawkes, it's OK." The hand was placed on Darien's shoulder again and this time he didn't jerk away, even though he was trembling from the sheer intensity of the -- nightmare. It had to be. It was too gruesome to have been real.

Or maybe you just can't face the truth.

Darien ignored the voices and turned to look at the face of his very alive and very worried partner. He quickly wrapped Hobbes up in a tight hug, sobbing, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry...."

Hobbes seemed understandably perplexed, but after a moment he wrapped his arms around Darien consolingly. "It's OK. Everything's gonna be OK."

**********

It took a good hour for Hobbes to calm Darien down enough that he was even remotely willing to allow Claire to perform even a perfunctory physical examination. And once Hobbes had gotten Darien's initial agreement, there was still the matter of getting him to sit still so that Claire could actually complete it.

"Fawkes," Hobbes growled after Darien's third attempt to brush away Claire's hand when it came anywhere near the collar around his neck, "she's just trying to make sure that thing isn't giving you an infection or anything. She won't take it off unless you want her to."

"You think I don't want the damn thing off?" Darien snapped, massaging the bridge of his nose with a thumb and index finger.

"If you want it off, then take it off!" Claire griped irritably.

Darien faltered, his anger giving way to trepidation. "I can't," he said, placing his hands in his lap and staring at them.

Hobbes bent down to look at him. "Why not?" he asked earnestly, looking into Darien's eyes.

Darien squirmed under Hobbes' intense gaze, and eventually looked away. "It's hard to explain."

"Try me."

Darien shook his head. "I can't, Hobbes, I just can't."

Hobbes tried to stifle the intense hurt he felt at the thought that Darien no longer felt comfortable confiding in him. "Alright then, partner. Just remember, I'm available to talk whenever you're ready."

Darien nodded in a noncommittal fashion. "Yeah...."

Claire, who had kept herself busy through the majority of Darien and Hobbes' exchange, turned to Darien brandishing an empty needle. "Alright Darien, this won't take long, I just need a blood sample."

Darien's eyes widened and he shook his head fervently. "No. No needles."

Claire gave Darien a reassuring smile and a quick pat on the shoulder. "It's for your own good, Darien. Don't worry, I'll be careful." Before Darien could protest, she pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. He jerked away, but not in time to keep Claire and Hobbes from catching a glimpse of his exposed arm.

"Crap!" Hobbes muttered, his eyes wide. From what he had been able to see, Darien's arm had more track marks on it than most junkies.

Claire's choice of words on the subject was a little more colorful. "Bloody hell!" She grabbed Darien's wrist and gently pulled his arm back toward her so she could get a better look. "What were they thinking? This sort of thing is medically unsound, downright unprofessional." She shook her head. "I'm surprised your veins haven't collapsed."

Hobbes pulled up Darien's other sleeve, and winced. "Same thing over here. Looks like he got attacked by a giant swarm of mosquitoes...." he trailed off as he noticed a very different kind of wound nestled in among the healing needle-pricks.

Darien jerked his arms out of Hobbes and Claire's grasp. "Leave me alone," he snarled savagely, his gaze cold. He rolled over on his side, pulling his shirtsleeves down forcefully, and stared sullenly at the floor.

"Claire, I need to talk to you," Hobbes said softly but firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her into a corner of the room before she could protest.

"Bobby, leaving Darien alone is the last thing he needs right now--" Claire began, but Hobbes placed a finger on her lips to quiet her.

"You're more right than you know. I saw something," he said, his eyes pleading with her to understand, begging her not to interrupt. "On his left wrist. Something besides the track marks. A scar I know wasn't there before."

"Well, of course he would have fresh scars, who knows what those scumbags did to him in there--"

"No," Hobbes said, interrupting her in mid-sentence. "This was the sort of scar he'd probably give himself."

Claire looked at him in puzzlement for a brief instant; the color drained from her face as she realized what he was insinuating. "Oh no, he wouldn't."

Hobbes gave Claire a pained look. "Well, like you said, we don't know what those scumbags did to him in there. Maybe... maybe he decided he couldn't take it anymore."

Claire pushed a few stray strands of hair behind her ear in a nervous motion. "If you're right, then this is worse than I thought. Much worse. We're going to have to watch him carefully, keep him away from any sharp objects... or any guns," she continued as her gaze drifted down to Hobbes' waist holster.

Hobbes quickly undid the straps and pulled it off, looking down at it critically. Then he handed it to Claire, who placed it in the same drawer in which she kept her own gun and her hairbrush, then locked it firmly. Hobbes shot a quick glance over at Darien, who hadn't moved from his previous position. "He's not gonna be OK, is he?" It was a painful and torturous thought, but it needed to be taken into consideration nonetheless.

Claire sighed. "It's hard to say. It will certainly be a while before he recovers enough to lead his normal life--"

"If you could call anything in his life normal," Hobbes interjected.

Claire continued as if Hobbes hadn't spoken. "But I think that in time, he will pull through. He just needs proper medical attention, good nutrition, and most importantly, friendship."

Hobbes nodded solemnly, the sparkle beginning to return to his eyes. "Alright. You take care of the first two, I'll take care of number three."

"Are you saying I can't give Darien the friendship he needs?" Claire asked, her expression stern but her voice teasing.

"No, I'm just worried you might end up giving him more than that," Hobbes returned, giving Claire a flirtatious wink.

"Bobby!" Claire exclaimed, giving him a playful slap on the arm.

Hobbes rubbed his arm, feigning injury, and stuck out his tongue. Then he adopted a more serious demeanor. "We can't let the Official anywhere near him... fat bastard would probably try and put him to work again, and we both know he can't take something like that right now."

Claire nodded her agreement. "I'll do my best to keep him distracted, although I can guarantee he won't appreciate it much."

Hobbes rolled his eyes. "When does he ever?"

**********

Darien huddled on the demented dentist's chair, in a state of severe mental conflict. The voices were getting louder, more insistent. And he was growing more willing to believe them. After all, Claire and Hobbes had been acting strange ever since Hobbes had rescued him... if he had really rescued him at all. Darien was having a hard time playing the rescue through scene by scene in his mind, although the fact that he had been on the floor half the time with his eyes squeezed shut in pain probably had something to do with that fact. Still, it was hard to remember, and Darien was seriously beginning to believe that this was all one of Smyth's tricks, just some new attempt to disillusion him. Any minute now, the dream would end and he would wake up in his padded cell with nothing to talk to but the white walls.

_Don't forget about us_, the voices whispered hauntingly in his ear.

"Of course," Darien replied, laughing bitterly. "I can't forget about you."

_We can help you, if you'll let us. We can tell you how to end the illusion._

He sneered derisively. "Lemme guess. Another knife to the wrist. Or maybe a bullet in the brain."

_They didn't let you do it last time. If you try to kill yourself, they'll have to end the game._

"And then I'll be back in Hell," Darien murmured.

_But at least you'll know the truth._

Darien considered for a long moment. He hated to admit it, but the voices were starting to make sense. They always did, after he listened to them long enough. "Alright," he said, hesitating a moment before he was able to muster up the courage to continue, "what do I do?"


	8. 8

That night, Hobbes came home to find an eviction notice taped to his front door. He swore and promptly pulled out his cell phone, dialing his landlord. After a good seventeen minutes of yelling back and forth, the landlord decided it might be a better idea if he came out in person. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he pulled up in front of the house in a shiny red convertible that Hobbes had no doubt had a hand in helping to pay for. 

"What the hell is this?" Hobbes demanded, waving the eviction notice in the landlord's face.

The landlord replied stoically, "It's an eviction notice. You're behind in your rent."

"Whaddaya mean, my rent is overdue? I paid it two weeks ago!" Hobbes protested, slamming a hand on his doorjamb to accentuate his point. He knew for a fact he had made his payment, because it had put a considerable dent in his savings.

"According to my records, you haven't paid for the last six months," the landlord drawled, an expression of pure boredom on his face.

"Your records are crap!" Hobbes hissed vehemently, poking the landlord on the chest.

"If you can pay the required amount, I might be able to look over this little lapse in monetary compensation," the landlord said. Hobbes frowned. Just paying one month's rent had caused him to end up living off of frozen waffles and ramen noodles for the better part of the past two weeks. There was no way he could afford to pay six months' worth of rent, especially when he knew he had paid it before. "You have five days to move out," the landlord intoned when Hobbes did not readily attest to having the necessary funds. "Anything you leave behind will be sold at auction."

"I think you should leave," Hobbes growled, "before I'm seriously tempted to mount your head on my wall."

The landlord merely turned and began to walk away. "See you in five days," he called just before he climbed into his car and drove off.

Hobbes slammed his fist against the doorjamb again, yelling, "Damnit!" He waited for the inevitable outpour of neighbors scurrying out of their houses to find out what was going on, but it never came. Apparently, they had grown used enough to his outbursts over the past five weeks that they no longer felt the need to investigate. Hobbes was grateful for that. He was certainly in no mood to explain his actions.

He walked into the house, grumbling angrily under his breath. He could only come up with one reason for why his rental payments had so suddenly disappeared, and he was about to give that reason a piece of his mind. He picked up the telephone and pounded out a number, angrily waiting for someone to answer.

After three rings the phone picked up. The Official's voice rumbled over the line, "This is him."

"Listen to me, you sick sonovabitch," Hobbes growled, "quit messin' with me!"

"What are you talking about?" the Official asked, feigning ignorance.

"You know perfectly well what," Hobbes practically spit into the phone. "And if you pull anything like that again, I will have no problems with putting a bullet in your skull."

"Temper, temper, Hobbes. Have you been taking your medication?" Hobbes could tell from the tone of the Official's voice that he was gloating.

"It ain't gonna work," Hobbes insisted, even though he knew that he was five days away from being out on the streets. "Not this time. I don't care what you do, you ain't gettin' to Fawkes through me."

The Official's only response was to hang up the telephone.

Hobbes snarled and slammed the handset down on its base, biting back the flow of curses that threatened to tumble from his throat. He took a moment to calm down, and then grabbed his phone book, searching for a relatively cheap storage facility where he would be able to keep his things.

**********

Darien's plan was simple. Once night came, he feigned exhaustion and went to bed. Then, it was only a matter of time before Claire dozed off in the chair she had pulled up so she could sit beside him, and he was able to slip out from under the covers and into a coating of quicksilver. It wouldn't do for the security cameras to record him walking through the halls, after all.

He carefully searched Claire's pockets until he found her keycard for lab 101 -- his had been confiscated by Chrysalis ages ago, and probably didn't work anymore anyway -- and paused for a moment, taking in her sleeping form. Her hair was mussed, and her lab coat was wrinkled, but her expression was peaceful. Darien found himself longing for the ability to sleep peacefully like that again. It had been so long since he had been able to really rest, to sleep without fear of nightmares.

Claire moaned slightly and curled up in a slightly different position on her chair, pulling Darien out of his reverie. He paused for a moment, watching her carefully to see if she would awaken. When she didn't, he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead, murmuring a quiet apology for what he was about to do. Then he slipped out of the room and began to navigate the Agency halls with ease, even after his long absence from them.

He swiped his keycard through the slot and watched as the door to the Keeper's lab opened, its sound muted as always. Stuffing the keycard into his pocket, he walked inside, eyes roving in search of a scalpel. His lips pursed together in annoyance. There were no scalpels in sight. In fact, there weren't any sharp objects around at all, not even any glass beakers left out for him to break. A few syringes full of a clear liquid lay on one of the countertops, but Darien had no desire to even come near them. He had had enough of needles to last him a dozen lifetimes.

His eyes narrowed. "They knew. How could they know?" He began to sift through drawers, searching for something, anything that would get the job done. But he found nothing -- until he placed his hand on the handle of the final drawer and discovered that it was locked.

"Oh come on, this is just too easy," Darien shook his head and grabbed a pen from a nearby tabletop. He allowed the quicksilver to fall as he systematically dismantled it and then picked the lock with the ease of a practiced professional. He was pleased to see that his efforts were rewarded; two guns lay in the drawer, scattered in with a myriad of hair products.

He picked up one of the guns gingerly, recognizing it as the one that Hobbes regularly carried on his person. Unbidden, the make came to mind: Colt .45. Darien hefted it in his grip, feeling the weight, sighting down the barrel. It was a good gun. No wonder Hobbes carried it everywhere.

Darien stared at the gun for a long moment, and then flipped off the safety. He placed it to the side of his head, then inside his mouth, trying to decide which method he would prefer. He finally decided on the mouth. That way if his aim was true he would be able to take out not only himself, but the gland as well. Of course, if everything went as he expected it to, he wouldn't actually get the chance to pull the trigger. But, just in case he actually managed it, he would prevent Chrysalis or the Agency or anyone else who wanted the gland from implanting it in some other poor sap who didn't know what he was getting into.

He placed the gun barrel in his mouth slowly, ignoring the taste of the cold metal on his tongue. Either a few dozen Chrysalis guards were about to storm into the room and take the gun away from him by force, or he was about to die. Either way, the dream would end.

**********

Hobbes walked slowly through the Agency halls, knowing that this was the only place Claire would possibly be under the circumstances. It was the only place she felt comfortable allowing Darien to stay, and thus the only place she would stay until she felt otherwise. Hobbes understood the feeling completely; not knowing what might be going on while he was away was driving him batty.

He knocked quietly on the door of the lab Darien had been placed in to sleep in earlier, and smiled when it opened and a bleary-eyed Claire peered out. "Bobby, what are you doing here?" she asked.

Hobbes shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

Claire nodded understandingly. "Come on in, but you'll have to be quiet, Darien is..." she turned around to look at the empty hospital bed and paled, "...not here."

Hobbes pushed past Claire, thumping one hand on the mattress to make sure that Darien hadn't somehow quicksilvered in his sleep. He muttered a curse under his breath when his hand impacted on nothing but empty sheets. "He could be anywhere!"

Claire made a hasty search of her lab-coat pockets. "No, not anywhere. My keycard to the lab is missing."

Hobbes was already dashing out of the room as he asked, "You have a spare?"

Claire quickly reached under one of the tables and pulled out a keycard that had been taped underneath, then hurried to catch up. "Of course!"

The two of them rushed down the hall, making better time than either would have thought possible under ordinary circumstances. The only time they slowed down was when Claire swept the keycard through the slot. The lab door opened and they rushed inside, but skidded to a halt as they saw Darien sitting on the chair Claire used to administer his counteragent in, Hobbes' gun inserted firmly in his mouth.

Darien looked up, his eyes tinted with surprise. The gun, however, didn't budge an inch. Hobbes took a cautious step toward Darien, trying to think of a way to get the gun out of his partner's hand without someone accidentally pulling the trigger. Claire, meanwhile, began to edge toward one of the countertops, maneuvering herself toward the syringes full of sedative that she had prepared earlier, in case of just such an emergency.

"C'mon Fawkes, put down the gun," Hobbes said, forcing his voice to remain calm. His first instincts at the moment were to yell hysterically and rush Darien in an attempt to yank away the gun, but he knew that listening to those instincts could only prove disastrous. "You don't wanna do this. The Darien Fawkes I know would never do this."

Darien's expression faltered, but his hand remained steady. Hobbes continued to edge toward him, holding his hands in front of him in a placating manner, trying to demonstrate that he was not a threat. "Just give me the gun," he said soothingly, "give me the gun." He took another step closer and paled as he saw Darien's hand tense. "Fawkes, no!"

A single tear spilled down Darien's cheek. He pulled the trigger.


	9. 9

Darien wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Possibly a searing pain. At least a tingling sensation as the bullet ripped through his skull. Probably some sort of noise from the gun-blast, a loud bang echoing through his ears. 

But whatever he had been expecting, it certainly wasn't a soft click.

Darien frowned and pulled the gun out of his mouth, looking at it curiously. By all rights, he should have a bullet in his head right now. So why didn't he? He pulled out the clip and stared at it for a moment uncomprehendingly. No bullets. It was completely empty.

Before Darien's was able to completely wrap his mind around the prospect, Hobbes was at his side, snatching the gun out of his hands. "What were you thinking?" he yelped, grabbing Darien by the collar and pulling him up so that they were eye to eye. "What the HELL were you thinking?"

By now, Darien's rational mind was in too much of a state of shock to make sense of Hobbes' actions. He was running on pure animal instinct, and that instinct classified Hobbes as a threat. He pushed Hobbes away and leapt out of the chair, tripping Hobbes in a lightning-quick move that sent the shorter man tumbling to the ground. He finally realized what he was doing and just barely managed to stop himself before he delivered the final, crushing blow that would have broken Hobbes' neck.

Hobbes looked up at Darien, his eyes wide. Darien pulled away and began to back up, shaking his head as if that would negate what had just happened. He didn't want to believe what he had just done, what he had been about to do. Then he felt a needle slide into his neck, and after a few moments he staggered to the floor, overcome by a drug-induced exhaustion.

**********

"He almost killed me," Hobbes said, staring down at Darien's unconscious form. "He was about to kill me."

Claire leaned down to check Darien's vitals, saying in her professional doctor's tone, "He was hysterical. He didn't know what he was doing."

"He knew exactly what he was doing," Hobbes insisted, rubbing places that hadn't been sore until a few moments before. "What he pulled on me there, that was professional stuff. The kid couldn't figure something like that out by himself. Someone taught him that move, and it sure as hell wasn't me."

"We both know who taught it to him," Claire said, her tone turning icy. "The question is, why?"

"Beats me. All I know is, I'm not the only one who's too good for his own good anymore. Fawkes is too damn good to be suicidal. He almost pulled it off." Hobbes shook his head somberly. If it weren't for the fact that he had been too busy to reload his gun after he had emptied his entire clip into that remote control, Darien would be dead right now. "What are we gonna do?"

"Well, the only person that can truly keep Darien from killing himself is, well, him." Claire heaved a deep sigh, nibbling her lower lip as she thought. "But until he makes that decision, we can put him in a place where he would be unable to hurt himself."

Hobbes shook his head fervently. "No. No, Claire, we can't do that to him now. We can't put him there. Not there. It'd kill him."

Claire sighed. "I know... but we don't have much of a choice. He's a danger to himself, and to us," she and Hobbes shared a meaningful glance, "while he's in this state."

Hobbes rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, a habit he had gradually begun to pick up after watching Darien do it for the last two years. "Isn't there another way?" he asked, giving Claire a pleading stare.

Claire shook her head despondently. "No, Bobby. I don't think there is."

**********

Darien awoke to white. White everywhere. White on the walls, white on the floor, white on the ceiling. He squeezed his eyes shut. The voices were right. It had all been a dream. Nightmare. Something. And now he was back in the white room, all white, and he couldn't move his arms for some reason and he looked down and saw that he was strapped in a straightjacket and he looked around the room in a panic and there was the mirror, that damned one-way mirror, and he couldn't hold it in anymore and he screamed.

**********

Hobbes stared at Darien through the one-way mirror, an anguished expression on his face. Darien had let out one long, tortured scream when he awoke. Then he had curled up in a ball in the center of the room, and he hadn't moved from the position since. Hobbes wasn't sure whether or not he was still conscious; the only sound he made was an occasional soft whimper.

Hobbes reached out and pressed one hand against the glass, whispering soft words of encouragement. He knew Darien couldn't hear him, but he felt the need to say the words, all the same. "It'll be alright, Fawkes. You can get through this. Just take it easy, partner, you'll be fine."

"A touching sentiment, but hardly appropriate considering the circumstances," the Official's voice rumbled from the doorway. Hobbes whirled around, his eyes narrowing as he took in the obese man that had just entered the room, Eberts following faithfully at his side.

"Get out," Hobbes said, his tone implying that his words had been a barely veiled threat. He was in control at the moment, but just barely. It was very hard to keep calm, to keep from charging at the Official and attempting to rip off his face. One of the veins in Hobbes' neck pulsed as he attempted to keep his temper under control.

"You cannot order me around," the Official replied, his voice calm but his gaze icy. "I am merely checking up on one of my agents," he continued, "and if you have a problem with that, you can leave."

"I'm not going to."

"I never said you would leave under your own power," the Official growled. "Don't get smart with me, Hobbes. It's bad for your health."

Eberts walked over to the one-way mirror, staring through it in disbelief. "Is he OK?" he asked, gesturing at the huddled figure in the center of the padded room.

Hobbes carefully considered his options before answering. If he told the whole truth, the Official might decide that Darien was a liability and order the gland removed, without a care as to the life it would end. But he couldn't lie and say that Darien was fine, either, since that was obviously not the case. So, he opted for the middle ground. A half-truth.

"Well, he ain't doin' too well," Hobbes gestured toward the padded room, "but he'll be OK. He just needs some time." The words left a sour taste in his mouth. In truth, he was beginning to disbelieve that very fact. The Official frowned cynically. He walked up to the one-way mirror and stared at Darien. After a long moment, he turned to walk out of the room, motioning for Eberts to follow.

And then Darien began to speak.

"I can't live like this," he whispered. He paused, as if listening to someone. His body tensed up in anger. "Yeah, well, I liked the dream a whole lot better than reality," he snapped. Another pause, and then he looked down at the ground dejectedly. "No," he whispered, "no, it's not."

The Official turned to Hobbes and bellowed, "Who the hell is he talking to?"

Hobbes paled and leaned forward, staring at Darien through the glass. Darien had mentioned something about hearing voices, hadn't he? Hobbes had brushed it off at the time, trying to convince himself that Darien was just bluffing. And although his comment to Claire about not sending Darien to the nuthouse had admittedly been at least partially derived from it, the full gravity of the statement had not hit him until now.

Hobbes rushed out of the room before the Official had time to protest, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to get into the padded room. He flung the door open, slamming it shut behind him without heed to the fact that he wouldn't be able to open it again from the inside. He stormed over to the one-way mirror and forcefully ripped the microphone nestled below it from its moorings. He needed to talk to Darien, but there was no way he was going to let the Official listen in.

"Hobbes?" Darien stared at Hobbes with confusion, although Hobbes got the feeling that it was not so much due to the fact that he was acting strangely as the fact that he was there in the first place. "This isn't right. I'm... you're not.... this can't be happening!" He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "You're not real. You can't be."

Hobbes frowned. "Is that really what you think, or is that what the voices're telling you?"

Darien turned away, whispering quietly, "It just doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense."

Hobbes walked over and sat down beside Darien, putting a hand on his partner's canvas-clad shoulder. "I'm sorry." He took a shuddering breath as the emotions of the past five weeks washed over him anew. The fear, the deep sense of loss, the intense wave of helplessness. The despair as he tried again and again to find his friend and, time after time, failed. And all he could think to say, the only thing that would come out of his mouth, was, "I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you come?" Darien asked, his voice just barely above a whisper. "I waited and waited. Why didn't you come?"

Hobbes tried to swallow the lump in his throat, his voice hoarse with unshed tears as he replied, "I tried, Fawkes. Lord knows I tried."


	10. 10

For a long moment there was only silence. Then Darien turned toward Hobbes, who flinched, unwilling to face the reproachful glare he was sure would be emanating from Darien's eyes. But there was no anger, no accusation. Just a lost, hopeless expression that tore at Hobbes' soul much more than even outright hatred would have. 

"Hobbes, I... I just can't take it anymore. Stop this. Please."

Hobbes gave Darien a pained look. "Stop what?"

"The dream. This dream." Darien shook his head. "It's too good to be real."

"It's real, Fawkes. And trust me, it ain't that good." Hobbes shook his head, laughing bitterly.

"But you're here, and Claire's here, and.... Hobbes, I was in Hell. I didn't think I was ever gonna get out. I'm still not sure I have." Darien nodded around the room. "They... this place, it...." He exhaled slowly. "You weren't there. You don't know."

"So tell me," Hobbes challenged.

"No!" Darien yelped, jerking away.

"What, you think I can't handle it? Fawkes, I've probably seen worse every day of my life." Hobbes stood to his feet, pouring as much anger and authority as he could into his physical bearing. If Darien wasn't willing to talk, maybe he would be willing to shout.

Darien lunged to his feet, the muscles in his shoulder bulging through the straightjacket. "You think so?" he yelled, his face contorted with anger. "You think you've seen worse? They kept me locked up in a place just like this all the time, Hobbes! And when I wasn't in there, I was out there being pumped full of drugs or taught to kill. They taught me how to KILL, Hobbes! They taught me in ten days what you probably learned in ten years!" His voice cracked, his eyes filling with anguish. "I can think of a dozen ways I could kill you right now without even breaking a sweat."

Hobbes raised an eyebrow. "Right now?" He asked, motioning toward the straightjacket wrapped around Darien's arms and torso. Darien just tightened his jaw and nodded. "Well tough luck, partner, 'cause I can think of thirteen." Hobbes was lying -- he really couldn't think of more than eight ways that Darien could possibly kill him right now, even with the greatest amount of luck and skill. But he wasn't about to let Darien win an argument about who was more knowledgeable about killing people.

"Hobbes... I think I'm crazy." Darien shook his head. "After all that, I don't see how I couldn't be."

"Ah ha!" Hobbes said, pointing a finger at Darien. "Now that right there is proof you're not crazy, my friend!"

Darien started to say something, paused, opened his mouth to speak again, and finally cocked his head to the left. "OK, you lost me there."

"Well, crazy people think they're sane, so there's no way you can be crazy."

Darien thought for a moment. Then he laughed. It was barely audible, but it was a real laugh and it brought a surge of hope into Hobbes' heart. "Nora Ephron."

Hobbes blinked twice and then shook his head. "OK, now I'm lost too."

"Insane people are always sure that they are fine. It is only the sane people who are willing to admit that they are crazy." Darien gave a brief shrug. "Nora Ephron said that."

Hobbes smiled. "Now, that's the Darien Fawkes I know!"

Darien almost smiled. But then he looked down at the ground, his gaze becoming pensive. "How long are they going to keep me in here?"

"Until they're sure you aren't gonna try to kill yourself again," Hobbes replied. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked over to lean against the one-way mirror.

"Can you at least take this thing off?" Darien flexed his arms as best he could under the rough canvas.

"That's not my call," Hobbes said, his eyes full of remorse. There was nothing he would have liked better than to remove the straightjacket, but Claire had made him promise that he would not do so without her permission.

Darien closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. "Will you stay?"

"If you want me to."

Darien sat down on the padded floor and leaned back against one of the walls. He fixed Hobbes with a pleading gaze. "Stay."

Hobbes sat down beside Darien, resting his wrists on his knees. "I'm not goin' anywhere, partner. I'm not goin' anywhere."

**********

Claire looked up as the Official walked into her lab. She brushed a few strands of hair out of her face in an attempt to make herself a little more presentable. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" she asked, even though she knew beyond a doubt that it would have something to do with Darien.

"What is Fawkes' current mental condition?"

Claire tensed. "Why do you ask?" She didn't think it particularly wise to tell the Official that Darien was suicidal.

"Just answer the question." The Official was employing a classic poker face. There was no way Claire could fully anticipate the answer he expected to hear.

"Well," Claire turned a few knobs on her microscope and peered into the lens, more to stall than anything, "considering what Darien has been through, I think he's doing exceptionally well."

"I see...." The Official's tone was one of disapproval.

"Do you have any particular reason for asking, sir?" Claire rephrased her earlier question, hoping to get a different response this time.

"How long before Fawkes will be able to return to active duty?" The Official completely ignored her question this time.

"Hard to say," Claire returned, alarm bells going off inside her head. "Maybe a few weeks. Maybe longer."

"How much longer?" The Official snapped irritably. Claire made no answer. The Official waited for a long moment and then said, "You have three weeks. If he isn't able to return to active duty in that time, the gland will be placed in a new host."

"Sir, that is completely uncalled for!" Claire yelled, slamming one hand down on her lab table. "Darien has worked for you faithfully for the last two years and in return you have mistreated and abused him more times than I can count. He had just finished going through a nightmare. The least you could do would be to support him now."

"This isn't about Darien. This is about the fact that if we don't have an active invisible agent within the next two months, Fish and Game is going to drop our sponsorship. Again. Do you have any idea how hard it will be to get a new sponsor if we get dropped by the same agency twice?" The Official's expression was livid. "You have three weeks. After that the gland will be harvested." He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

Claire just stared at the lab door for a long moment. Then she picked up an empty beaker and hurled it at the closed door, yelling in frustration, "Bloody hell!" She choked down a sob. Unless a miracle occurred, there was no way Darien would be able to return to active duty in the time-span the Official had allotted her. With the levels of post-traumatic stress he had shown, not to mention the suicidal tendencies, Claire wasn't sure if he would be ready for active duty again in three years, let alone three weeks. And, while she could help him along, he was the one who would have to do the real healing.

When she was finally able to breathe calmly without risking bursting into tears she walked out of the lab, slowly making her way to the observation room for the padded cell. When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Eberts already in the room, seated in a small uncomfortable chair that had been pulled up in front of the one-way mirror.

Eberts glanced over at Claire and gave her a wan smile. It quickly vanished as he saw the expression on her face. "Did the Official... talk with you?"

"That's one way of putting it," Claire replied, trying as hard as possible to keep her tone from becoming hostile. Eberts was not the person she was angry at; she didn't want to lash out at him.

Eberts shook his head and heaved a troubled sigh. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he's made up his mind."

"I won't let him do it. It's as simple as that. And I know Bobby won't let him do it, either."

Eberts squirmed and gave a nervous cough, obviously going through some sort of inner struggle. Finally he looked up at Claire and said in a quiet tone, "How can I help?"

Realizing how hard it must have been for Eberts to decide to defy the Official's orders, Claire gave him a gentle smile. "You could keep us informed of any unforeseen developments." She paused a moment, and then put a hand on Eberts' shoulder. "Thank you."

Eberts nodded absently, then turned back to the one-way mirror. Claire pulled up another uncomfortably rigid chair and sat down beside him, peering through the glass. Darien lay curled up in a boneless heap on the floor, his face not completely peaceful even in slumber. Hobbes sat beside him, watching over his sleeping partner in a protective manner. Claire had no doubts that, if the situation were reversed, Darien would be only too willing to do the same.

Claire reached up a hand and brushed it softly against the glass. "Don't worry, Darien," she whispered quietly, "we aren't going to let you down."


	11. 11

_Cold. _

_Cold and bright._

_Darien shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to ward off the chilling light that threatened to pierce his very being. Still, he couldn't stop the icy fingers that shivered up and down his spine, their not-quite-physical presence a torture in and of itself._

_He took deep breaths in an attempt to negate the overpowering sensation that he was drowning. He had felt the weight in his chest, the need for oxygen, for quite some time now. He wasn't sure if the sensation was due to the feeling of morbid hopelessness that had become his constant companion during the last several days or whatever strange liquid had been in the latest needle one of Smyth's men had jammed into his arm. Either way, the sensation was rapidly becoming unbearable. He took quick gasps in an attempt to fill his depleted lungs._

_His body's stubborn insistence for oxygen was disrupted when the door to the padded room swung open. Smyth stepped inside, his gaze quickly sweeping the room and then fixating on Darien. Darien's eyes widened in terror, and for a long moment he forgot to breathe._

_"On your feet." Smyth's voice wasn't harsh, but it was commanding. Darien quickly scrambled to his feet, knowing that if he didn't do as he was told he would be punished. Smyth's methods of punishment weren't fun. "Follow me." Smyth walked out of the padded room and Darien followed meekly, taking a moment as he stepped out of the room to attempt a recovery from the mild case of snow-blindness he was suffering from thanks to the painfully white walls of his cell. He didn't entertain any notions of escape; the collar around his neck made all attempts useless. This he knew from past experience._

_After what seemed an interminably long walk down muted gray halls, Smyth stopped and swiped a keycard through the lock of a metal sliding door that vaguely reminded Darien of the door that led to the Keeper's lab. Smyth motioned for Darien to walk inside._

_Darien stepped into the room, puzzled by its lack of any furniture or occupants. All the other rooms he had been taken into either had equipment that he was supposed to train with in some way, or a person whose job it was to teach him strange fighting moves that he could barely remember clearly thanks to the amount of drugs that were constantly being pumped into his system. Or at least, he couldn't remember them consciously. His body seemed to have memorized them._

_After making a more thorough sweep of the room with his eyes, he realized that it wasn't completely empty. There was an object on the far side of the room, shrouded in shadow. Darien moved toward it, narrowing his eyes as he realized what it was. He turned back to Smyth and shook his head. "What the hell are you trying to pull, here?"_

_"Pick it up."_

_Darien shook his head desperately. "No!" He stared at the sniper's rifle, unwilling to even come within a few feet of it. Stark was trying to turn him into his father!_

_Smyth held up the remote control as a visual reminder of the control he held over Darien. "Pick it up."_

_"NO!" Darien yelled, defiance taking hold in him for the first time in several weeks._

_Smyth gave a disappointed sigh and then pressed a button on the remote, sending Darien sprawling to his knees in pain. "I thought we were past this, Darien." He walked into the room, looking down at Darien sternly. "Pick up the rifle."_

_Darien could barely think through the pain. "No," he moaned._

_"Pick it up!" Smyth growled, bending down so that his face was just inches away from Darien's. He pressed another button, and Darien howled as a new wave of pain rushed through him._

_When the pain finally subsided Darien sank to the floor, gasping from the residual pain. "No...." he whispered, as much to himself as to Smyth. He could tell that his momentary surge of rebelliousness was slipping away. And he hurt so much, he hurt all over.... He just wanted it to stop. What harm would there be in picking up the gun? It wasn't like Smyth had told him to shoot someone... not yet._

_"Pick up the gun," Smyth said, his voice quiet but commanding._

_Darien whimpered, and finally sat up, his entire body screaming at the strain. He looked at Smyth, then the gun, then the remote. And, almost of its own accord, his hand began to reach for the rifle._

"NO!" He jerked upward, gasping, and then realized that he was no longer in the room with the rifle. White room, white room, white room. A new surge of panic rushed through him and he struggled to pull his arms up over his head to shut out the brightness, but his arms wouldn't move and he tried and he tried and they just -- wouldn't -- move -- and then he felt a hand on his shoulder and a soothing voice in his ear and he took a shaky breath and tried to keep from breaking down into tears.

"Calm down Fawkes, it's alright, it was just a dream," Hobbes' voice crooned softly in Darien's ear. "Just a dream."

But Darien knew it wasn't just a dream. It was a memory. A nightmarish memory, one of several that he knew would haunt him for years to come. He should never have picked up that gun. He should never have taken the practice shots at the paper targets Smyth's men set up. He should have protested, should have fought back, should have let them torture him until he collapsed on the floor in a bloody heap. But instead he had broken, done what they told him to, become a slave to their every whim.

"You should have let me kill myself," he whispered, looking up at Hobbes' tan face with pain-filled eyes.

"Fawkes," Hobbes said, his brow wrinkled with worry and displeasure, "you don't mean that."

"You shouldn't have bothered saving me," Darien continued, "I'm not worth anything to anyone." He shook his head. "I'm only causing trouble."

Hobbes slammed one hand down on the padded floor. "Damnit, Fawkes!" Darien flinched with surprise at his partner's outburst. Hobbes gave Darien a harsh look, "Don't talk like that! Claire and I have been lookin' for you for over a month because we thought you were worth it. And you ain't causin' any trouble we couldn't have gotten in on our own."

"Somehow I doubt that," Darien muttered.

Hobbes gave Darien a harsh glare. "You listen to me, my friend. I have put my butt on the line for you. And I have had it with you feelin' sorry for yourself, thinking that no one cares about you. Claire and I are tryin' to help you, but we can't do that if you aren't willing to help yourself!"

"I can't help myself! I can't help anybody!"

Hobbes shook his head sadly. "If that's what you think, then maybe the Darien Fawkes I knew really is dead." He stood up and tapped on the glass of the one-way mirror in an indication that he wanted out.

Darien rose to his feet, trying to keep from panicking. "Hobbes, c'mon man, I didn't mean it that way, you don't have to leave." Hobbes made no move to acknowledge Darien's plea. "C'mon, Bobby...."

Hobbes ran a hand over his face, and for the first time Darien noticed the circles under his eyes. "Fawkes, I'm tired. There's a lot of stuff goin' on right now, and I just need some time to think." The door to the padded room swung open, and he began to walk toward it, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. "I'll be back later."

Darien opened his mouth to protest, but it was too late. Hobbes had walked out of the door. He leaned against one of the walls, a saddened expression on his face. "Crap." He might have just succeeded in driving his best friend away.

_Good job_, the voices cackled, _you're all ours now_.

In response, Darien curled up on the floor and let out a keening moan.

**********

"You're sure?" Stark queried harshly, glaring across his desk at the nervous man on the other side of it.

"Positive," the informant nodded rapidly.

Stark briefly debated on asking the man how he had acquired the information he had just revealed, but decided it was unnecessary. The man wouldn't have given it unless he was absolutely sure that it was correct. Stark had made it abundantly clear that he would not tolerate faulty information. Faulty information got people killed, the informants not the least among the casualties. "Very well." He inclined his head toward the door. "Dismissed."

The man hastily stood to his feet and scurried out of the room. Stark waited until the door swung shut and then pressed a button on his intercom. "I want to see Hastings in my office, now," he said sharply.

Not more than a minute and a half later, Hastings walked into the room, his demeanor a sharp contrast to the man who had just left. He walked slowly, calmly, his posture indicating that he feared nothing and no one. Stark acknowledged his presence with a brief nod. "Get your men together. We're going to rescue," Stark allowed sarcasm to drip through his tone as he said the word 'rescue', "Darien Fawkes."

Hastings inclined his head in affirmation. "Where is he?" he asked, his tone purely business.

"The Agency." Stark folded his hands on his lap and said, "I want Fawkes alive. I don't care about other casualties." Hastings nodded and walked out of the room to prepare the raid. Jared reclined in his chair and allowed a self-laudatory smile to cross his face, content in the knowledge that Darien would soon be back under his control.


	12. 12

Hobbes didn't feel up to driving home to rest, especially since in a few more days it wouldn't be home, so his goal as he walked out of the padded room was not the Agency parking lot, but the lab. He knew from past experience that, while mildly uncomfortable, the chair that Darien used to receive his counteragent shots in was at least semi-adequate for taking a nap in. 

However, before he even made it halfway down the first hallway Claire's voice echoed out from behind him, causing him to stop in his tracks. "Bobby, wait!"

Hobbes turned around and saw Claire rushing down the hall toward him, her hair pulled up in a loose ponytail that looked as if she had hastily put it up without so much as glancing at a mirror. Even so, she looked beautiful. "Yeah?" he asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets and giving her a wan smile.

"I saw what was going on in there," she said, gesturing toward the padded room, "and I couldn't hear anything, but it looked like you and Darien had, well, a disagreement." She cleared her throat before continuing. "I just wanted to remind you that--"

Hobbes cut in before Claire could finish, "That Fawkes ain't thinkin' clearly right now, and I should cut him some slack, right?"

Claire raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

"I know that. I just... it's hard seein' him like this, and sometimes it gets to me." He sighed. "I need a nap. Can I head down to the lab?"

Claire handed Hobbes her spare keycard, patting him on the shoulder and saying, "Keep it." She smiled. "You hang around the lab enough, it's about time you had one."

Hobbes gave her a roguish grin. "I hang around your house a lot, too. When do I get the keys to that?"

Claire shook her head and playfully scolded, "Bobby!"

Hobbes just laughed and renewed his trek down to Lab 101, absently humming a tune as he walked. He still needed to rest so that he could refresh his body, but Claire had already refreshed his spirit.

**********

Darien struggled futilely against the bonds of his straightjacket, gasping for air like a drowning man. When Hobbes had been in the room he had had someone to talk to. It had helped him to keep the memories at bay. But now that he was alone, they were smothering him, making it impossible for him to think clearly as wave after wave of nightmarish visions flashed through his brain. And the voices would -- not -- be -- quiet!

_He isn't coming back, you know. And it's your own fault, you drove him off. He's not going to come back, and you'll have to stay in here with us forever and ever and ever...._

"Shut up!" Darien yelled, slamming his head back against the padding.

They laughed. _That isn't going to work. You should know better by now._

Darien growled in frustration and leaned forward, straining his entire upper body in an attempt to rip through the canvas. "I don't care what you say! He's coming back."

_Oh, come now Darien, don't be naive._

"He's coming back!"

_He isn't._

"HE IS!"

You can pretend all you want, but we all know you don't really believe that.

Darien bit his lip in an attempt to hold back tears of anger and frustration. "The only thing I don't believe around here is you."

For a long time, the voices made no reply. But, just as Darien came to the conclusion that they had finally decided to leave him alone, they whispered softly in his ear. _You'll never be rid of us, Darien._

Darien took a shaky breath, then clenched his jaw determinedly and retorted, "Well, I can sure as hell try."

**********

Stark stood outside the Agency, calmly surveying his men as Hastings gave them their final instructions. He smiled, pleased with the way everything had fallen into place. It was a weekday, but all available Agency personnel had been sent out on some mission or another -- probably to make up for the loss of their invisible man, Stark mused. They were probably taking the time to help Darien become whole and hale again. And in the end, that would be their downfall.

Hastings paced back and forth as he concluded his speech. "The first person to spot Fawkes will radio in and state his exact location. Then they are to take Fawkes directly to Stark, preferably without any permanent physical damage. Is that understood?"

A resounding chorus of "Sir, yes sir!" echoed from the mouths of the men Hastings had picked out for this particular task, although they could hardly be called men; most of them were under the legal drinking age, and fully half of them were minors. Still, they were all very good at their jobs.

Hastings nodded his approval. "Alright men, move out." The troop of boys immediately marched over to the Harding building and pushed their way inside. Stark ignored the volley of gunshots that began to echo out of the building, waiting until the noise finally died down before he even considered going inside. Just because he was bent on recapturing Darien didn't mean he intended to get killed doing so.

**********

Hobbes was awakened from his slumber by the shrieking blare of an alarm. He sat up in a panic, his brain frantically attempting to pierce through the fog of sleep that had clouded his brain and discern the meaning of the painful clangor echoing in his ears.

Alarm bells meant trouble. And right now, trouble at the Agency could mean only one of two things. Either someone was breaking in or someone was breaking out. And, no matter which possibility proved to be the correct one, Darien was sure to be right in the thick of it.

"Fawkes!" he yelped, leaping off of the one-time counteragent chair and barreling out of the lab. His feet traveled down the halls seemingly of their own accord, finally skidding to a halt in front of the padded room.

Hobbes hesitated, his hand freezing a fraction of an inch above the door handle. What if Darien wasn't there? What if he was running loose in the building, covered by a quicksilver skin, searching for another way to end it all? What if Hobbes had run right past him during that mad dash down the hallway?

There was only one way to find out. Hobbes steeled himself and took a deep breath. Then he opened the door.

He glanced around the room in a panic, his eyes taking in white walls, white floor, white ceiling. Only the reflective one-way mirror revealed to him what wasn't quite within his line of sight: the close-cropped brown head of hair and metallic collar that identified Darien's pale figure, huddled in one of the snow-white corners. He shrank back into the pale padding, his body tense with pent-up energy, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Hobbes released a breath he hadn't known he was holding and began to step inside, but before he even had time to turn and look in Darien's direction a strong force rammed into his back with the force of a football player's tackle, sending him toppling to the ground. He struggled against the weight that was now sitting atop him, growling, "Fawkes, get offa me!" He didn't even have to look to know whose bony legs were pushing him against the floor.

The weight lifted off of Hobbes' back and he rolled over, glaring up at Darien, who shrugged his shoulders sheepishly -- or came as close to shrugging his shoulders as was possible in a straightjacket. "I thought you were someone else."

Hobbes narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

"No one you know," Darien intoned, purposely avoiding Hobbes' gaze. "What's with the noise-makers?" he asked, referring to the alarm sirens that still echoed harshly through the building.

The temptation to repeat the question of who Darien had thought might be coming into the padded room briefly flitted through Hobbes' brain, but he brushed it off, deciding instead to focus on the more immediate need to get his partner out of danger. "I don't know, but I'm not in the mood to find out," he replied briskly. He stood to his feet and dusted himself off, then motioned for Darien to turn around. "C'mon, let's get you outta that monkey-suit and outta this building."

"I got no arguments with you there," Darien grinned, and spun around so that Hobbes could properly undo the buckles that held the straightjacket in place.

Hobbes quickly undid the straps and pulled the rough canvas jacket off of Darien's shoulders. "Alright, let's vamoose."

Darien paused for just long enough to stretch both of his arms, flexing muscles that had become sore and cramped in their confinement. Then he sprinted for the doorway, "Yeah, let's get the hell outta Dodge!"

Hobbes shook his head and followed Darien out into the hall. Darien had already obtained a considerable lead due to his longer legs. Hobbes brought up the rear, shoving a clip in his gun and grumbling to himself about how, just once, he would like to be the taller agent in a partnership as well as the senior one. However, a very disturbing thought suddenly intruded on his mind, causing him to skid to an abrupt stop.

Where was Claire?

Hobbes looked over at Darien's rapidly diminishing form, then back in the direction he had come, a torn expression on his face. Then he renewed his pursuit of Darien. He finally caught up just as Darien reached the front doors of the building, and yelled, "You go on ahead, I'll catch up!" He turned on his heel and ran back the way he had come, hoping that Darien would have the sense to get out of the building and find a suitable hiding place until he returned.


	13. 13

Darien watched anxiously as Hobbes disappeared around a corridor, a painful dilemma playing out inside his head. He could leave the building and seek a suitable hiding place until Hobbes came out. However, there was also the possibility that he wouldn't come out unless Darien followed him to watch his back. And why was he going back inside, anyway? 

_Leave him_, the voices hissed. _He left you, there's no reason you should worry about him. Besides, he told you to get out._

Darien smirked. "Thanks. Now I know exactly what to do." He quicksilvered and began to run down the corridor after Hobbes.

_No, no, no no NO! Leave! LEAVE! _

Darien merely increased his pace, hoping he would be able to catch up to Hobbes quickly and without incident.

_You're an idiot. Turn around and get out of here, now!_

Darien's eyes narrowed. "You know what? I'm sick and tired of putting up with you. You're loud, you're annoying, and every single bit of advice you've ever given me was a piece of crap. And on top of that, you're not even real. So you go your way, and I'll go mine, and if you don't leave me alone I'll get Hobbes to give me some of those weird pills he's always taking. They oughtta take care of you real good." He smirked malevolently.

_You'll be sorry...._

And then, to Darien's great surprise and relief, the voices slowly began to fade into the background. They weren't completely gone, not yet, but they were no longer prevalent in his mind. It was a feeling almost indescribable by words. Not to have them whispering in his ear, planting seeds of doubt in his mind, warring for supremacy against the rest of the world... it was like he had suddenly had a huge weight lifted off of his shoulders. Had he not been so intent on finding Hobbes, he might very well have let out a whoop of joy.

Darien's enthusiasm was abruptly dampened as the corridor branched off in three directions. He stared down each hallway in turn and finally uttered a bewildered, "Aw crap." Hobbes could have gone in any one of the three directions, and there was no way for Darien to know for sure which one. He now had only a one-in-three chance of locating Hobbes, and an even lower chance of doing so without running into some unforeseen difficulty.

Darien frowned as he began to consider where the various corridors led. The one on the left led to nothing more interesting than the archives and the small janitorial-closet-turned-break-room. If he chose the corridor that led straight ahead, he would shortly find himself heading toward the Official's office, as well as the much smaller office that he and Hobbes had once shared. Hobbes might conceivably have gone in that direction, but Darien couldn't think of a feasible reason why, unless he was in the mood to beat the crap out of the Official.

The hallway to the right, however, was another matter entirely. In that direction was the padded room, and, more importantly, the labs, any one of which Claire might be working in at the moment. Darien couldn't see Hobbes making a rescue attempt for the Official or Eberts without some sort of special motivation, but Claire... for her, Hobbes would run into a burning building without thinking twice.

And that was all Darien needed to know.

He turned down the hallway that led to the right, his pace quickly increasing to a run. He didn't care what people might think about the footfalls caused by an unseen source. What he cared about was the fact that Hobbes might very well be in trouble at the moment, and he was determined to keep his partner's peril to a minimum -- especially if, as he suspected, it had been caused by him.

***********

Using Claire's spare keycard to gain him access to areas he would otherwise have been forced to ignore, Hobbes frantically searched rooms one after another, hope welling up in his throat as he stopped in front of each new door and then dashing to the ground as the labs behind them proved empty.

Even though they had grown closer during the weeks after Darien's disappearance, and Hobbes' feelings for Claire had grown even stronger than before, he had not informed her of them. There was no longer the issue of the company pier, but there were still the underlying issues he had faced all along. The possibility of rejection, or even a failed relationship, had echoed painfully through his mind. He hadn't been willing to risk another experience like the one he had had with Vivian. So, he had said nothing; a fact that he was now beginning to sincerely regret.

"Where are you?" he whispered, fear for Claire's safety causing his voice to have an unusually soft and anxious quality to it. As a government agent, he had been trained not to let fear take control of his actions. But Claire had always had the strange ability to break through all his barriers, all the self-defense mechanisms he had put up over the years. This time was no different. He was more worried about her than he had been about any other human being, with the possible exception of Darien.

Hobbes was abruptly distracted from his musings by the sound of a very familiar British voice as it echoed out from one of the neighboring hallways, in a manner both adamant and cross, "Let me go!"

"Where's Fawkes?" a male voice demanded harshly.

Hobbes didn't need to hear any more. He rounded the corner at top speed, bringing his gun to bear on the young man that was holding one of Claire's arms tightly, a large machine gun dangling in his other hand. "You heard the lady. Let her go." His words were forcedly casual, but a deep undercurrent of threat ran beneath them. He meant business, and he wanted the man who had a grip on Claire's arm to know it.

The man turned to Hobbes, an irritated expression on his face. "Stay outta this, mac. It'll be your turn soon enough."

Hobbes took a step forward, aiming his gun directly at the Chrysalis agent's head. "Forget it, pal. Play-time's over." The man frowned and began to raise his gun, but before he could complete the motion Claire stomped the heel of her leather boot down squarely on his toe. He yelped in surprise and Hobbes used the opportunity to fire a well-placed bullet at his shoulder.

The man swore loudly as his machine gun clattered to the floor, and grabbed Claire in a threatening manner. "One more move and I break her pretty little neck," he hissed.

Hobbes tensed, his body reacting before his brain had time to think as he squeezed the trigger again, this time hitting the man in the middle of the forehead. The man slumped to the ground, dead. Claire jerked away from the corpse, exclaiming, "Bobby!"

Hobbes flinched. "He was gonna hurt you."

Claire looked down at the dead man and shivered slightly. "Well, you didn't need to kill him...."

"He would've killed you, no question about it." Hobbes' lips pressed into a thin line.

Claire sighed and shook her head. She paled suddenly and looked at Hobbes, demanding, "Where's Darien?"

"I got him outta the building, he'll be fine." Hobbes placed a hand on her shoulder and began to guide her down the hallway, "We'd better get outta here too. This ain't exactly a vacation hot-spot at the moment." Claire nodded and the two of them began making their way to the exit. Hobbes kept his gun at the ready and kept fully on the alert, not wanting to run into any more Chrysalis agents. Claire glanced around warily as well, crouching as she ran in an unconscious attempt not to be seen.

Hobbes nearly panicked as an invisible hand suddenly laid itself on his shoulder, a wintry cold feeling spreading over his entire body. Within seconds he found himself seeing the world through monochromatic shades of gray. "Damnit, Fawkes, don't do that!" he yelped, the quicksilver giving him instantaneous knowledge of just who had clapped the icy hand down on his shoulder. 

Claire, who had yet to disappear, shook her head in irritation. "Darien, you shouldn't be here--" Before she could finish, Hobbes saw Darien's palely glowing figure place his free hand on her shoulder and she, too, was reborn in the soft aura of the quicksilver.

"Don't argue with me, guys, let's just scram," Darien said, his voice taking on the hurried and somewhat petulant quality that indicated he was under a distinct level of stress and discomfort. He didn't bother to wait for his friends' protests to renew themselves as he began to herd them busily down the corridor.

"Fawkes, I told you to wait outside," Hobbes snarled, trying not to admit to himself that he was grateful for his friend's metaphorical, if not literal, reappearance. If he acknowledged that, he would merely be feeding Darien's fancies, and while that might possibly be a good thing in the future, right now the top priority was escaping with all limbs intact, not getting captured with Darien's ego thoroughly soothed.

The three invisible figures maneuvered through the halls in a tense silence, Claire and Hobbes indirectly linked together by the hands Darien had placed on their shoulders. Hobbes could feel his pulse quicken as they came closer to the exit, the thought of escape somehow not quite yet tangible. Something was wrong, something was off....

Hobbes felt Darien flinch. "What's the matter?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

Darien's voice, when he spoke, contained a measure of puzzlement and suspicion. "I don't know, I--" He collapsed to the ground in an abrupt fashion, writhing in pain and clasping futilely at the collar that still wound around his neck. Hobbes swore as the quicksilver showered off of him, then off of Claire, as if a light wind had come along and blown off the snow that had gathered on the branches of two fir trees.

Stark sauntered into view, a disturbingly familiar-looking remote control in hand. Two henchmen flanked him. "Hello, Darien," he said, smirking down at the lanky figure sprawled at his feet. "I had the feeling you might come this way, after my men found Albertson dead a few minutes ago." He shook his head. "You wasted a bullet, you know. Would have been better to just shoot him in the head in the first place instead of going for the shoulder."

Hobbes' jaw tightened. "I'm the one who killed Albertson, and you leave Fawkes the hell alone! You've done enough to him already."

Stark glared at Hobbes, his expression one of undiluted exasperation. "Do you really think I would go to all this trouble," he gestured around him at the dead employees lying on the ground and the speakers from which warning sirens were still blaring, "if I was just going to leave Darien the hell alone?" He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Really, you must think me unutterably stupid."

"Yeah, well, you ain't exactly the brightest bulb in the box, that's for sure," Hobbes quipped, wishing desperately that Stark's men did not have their guns trained on him at the moment. It would have made things lot easier if they had not entered into the equation.

Stark merely sighed in a long-suffering manner and then said, "Drop your gun, or I'll have my men open fire on you and the Keeper." Hobbes stiffened, but then slowly allowed his gun to clatter to the floor. Stark nodded with approval. "Now kick it over here." Hobbes did as he was told, shooting Stark a murderous glare. There was nothing he would have liked better at the moment than to give the arrogant man a punch in the nose, or maybe a bullet to the kneecap, but he was not about to risk Claire's safety for a simple bit of come-uppance that would probably get him shot into the bargain.

Once Stark presumably wrote Hobbes off as a threat he turned his attention back to Darien, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction as he announced, "On your feet, Darien. I have a job for you to do."


	14. 14

Darien squeezed his eyes shut from the pain that had exploded out of the collar around his neck and cringed as Stark's voice began to cut through the haze. Hobbes' voice registered in his ears as well, but the aftereffects of the agony he had just experienced made it difficult to discern what either men were saying. Still, Darien could tell by the nuances of their tones that they were having some sort of disagreement. 

Clattering of metal against cheap tiles. Darien automatically registered the sound as that of a gun falling to the floor. Stark's voice rang out hollowly through the hall and then there was a slow scraping noise that Darien assumed was the gun sliding across the floor. As the pain finally began to subside, he opened his eyes and saw the gun lying not two feet from his face. The temptation to reach out and grab it was unbearable, but just as he was about to give in to it Stark's voice rang out above him.

"On your feet, Darien. I have a job for you to do." The words sent a shiver up Darien's spine.

And, without even thinking, he obeyed. He cursed himself for it immediately afterwards as he saw the stunned expressions on Claire and Hobbes' faces, but by then it was too late. They had seen him cower and clamber to his feet like a kicked puppy. And now Darien was sure he saw pity emanating from their eyes.

Completely oblivious to Darien's internal turmoil, Stark motioned to Hobbes' gun. "Pick it up."

Darien was filled with a deep sense of foreboding as he bent down to pick up the silver Colt .45 at his feet. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew exactly what Stark was going to demand next.

"Now..." Stark turned to Hobbes and Claire and continued in a casual tone, "shoot them."

Darien saw Claire's eyes widen, and Hobbes' jaw muscles tense. He could feel the color draining from his cheeks as he looked first at them, then at Stark, then at the gun in his hands. Hobbes' gun. Stark wanted Darien to shoot his friends with Hobbes' gun.

_We warned you...._

"Shut up," Darien hissed through his teeth, referencing the voices that had once again begun to echo through his mind. Apparently, they felt the need to gloat.

"Shoot them," Stark repeated, traces of malice seeping into his voice.

"Don't do this, Fawkes," Hobbes whispered. His hand strayed to Claire's and he wrapped his fingers around hers in a tender manner, although he probably was not even aware he had done so. His voice contained a hint of desperation, but it was painfully obvious to Darien that he wasn't pleading for his life. He was pleading for Claire's.

_It's all over_, the voices cackled, _pleased at the fulfillment of their dire predictions. This is going to be your life. Death is going to be your life._

Darien's hand trembled as he stared down at the gun, at the way his hand easily wrapped around it. And, unbidden, the memory came of how easy it had been to pull the trigger. True, the gun barrel had been in his mouth at the time, and the clip had been empty. But it had been so simple, just a little tug of the finger... it wouldn't be hard to do it again.

_Come on, it'll be easy. You've done it before... it's like shooting ducks. Just aim and pull the trigger._

"No...." Darien whispered, shaking his head in an attempt to shut out the voices that he had been so sure he had driven away.

_Why fight it? Just shoot them and get it over with. They never really cared about you, anyway. _

Darien's jaw tightened. "Oh yes, they did." He stared at the gun for a long moment and then threw it forcefully to the floor. The violent impact as it hit the ground caused it to go off, but the bullet merely embedded itself in the cheap flooring.

Darien turned to Stark, his entire being recoiling at the thought of what this blatant rebellion was going to cost him. Still, his heart was filled with a certainty he had not felt for a long time: the knowledge of how many lines he could cross... but also of some he couldn't, however blurred they might be. Darien took a deep breath and pulled himself to his full height, towering over Stark, the set of his jaw and the glint in his eyes showing traces of the stubborn defiance that he had once been known for.

Stark's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"I can't." Darien shook his head determinedly and corrected his statement with a harsh, "I won't."

Stark shrugged and said coldly, "Very well." He held up the remote for Darien's collar. Darien took a sharp intake of breath and braced himself for the pain he knew was going to come. Still, he wasn't prepared when it did.

It was five, ten, a hundred times worse than any of the times previous. The pain ran through his entire body like lightning, setting muscles afire and turning his insides to jelly. And instead of lessening as time progressed, it increased exponentially with each passing moment.

Darien had no memory of collapsing to the ground as he let out a long, agonized scream. He had no memory of going into convulsions and slamming his head painfully against the hallway floor. All he remembered was agonizing pain and a ringing in his ears as he convulsed violently and then finally lay still.

***********

Hobbes stared at Darien's limp form for a long moment, his brain refusing to process what he had just seen. If he had been able to properly comprehend the sight before him, Hobbes' first instinct would have been to rush over to Darien and check his pulse. To all intents and purposes, Darien looked dead.

Claire's voice was what finally brought Hobbes back to reality. "Darien!" she gasped, her voice filled with horror. She started to rush over to his side, but was forced to come to a stop as one of Stark's henchmen aimed his gun at her head.

Hobbes immediately stepped in between Claire and the gun. "Point that thing somewhere else, pal."

Stark prodded Darien's body contemptuously with one foot, shaking his head when nothing happened. He turned to Hobbes. "On the contrary, I think he has the right idea."

Claire glared at Stark. "You are a sick, cruel man."

Stark merely gave Claire an indifferent look. "I'm simply a businessman looking out for my own interests."

Hobbes clenched his fists and snarled, "Oh, so knockin' Fawkes on his butt there just 'cause he wouldn't fire a gun for you is lookin' out for your own interests?"

Stark huffed irritably. "You have no idea how much is at stake here."

"Oh no, I know exactly what's at stake. My partner's life." Hobbes tightened his jaw stubbornly. "Well, I got news for you. You can't have 'im."

Stark chortled softly. "I don't think you're in any position to make such a claim, Mr. Hobbes." He turned to his men, motioned to Hobbes and Claire, and said blandly, "Shoot them."

"I... wouldn't do that... if... I were you." All eyes immediately turned to focus on the speaker. Hobbes stared in disbelief. Darien had managed to prop himself up on the ground with one elbow and was aiming Hobbes' gun at Stark with his free hand. His voice was weak and his aim was shaky, but there was a determined look in his eyes that Hobbes knew very well.

Stark sneered. "Oh, please. Have you forgotten already?" He held up the remote and waved it in a taunting motion.

Darien smirked and sat up. "Maybe... you should get your eyesight checked."

Hobbes frowned for a moment, and then had to hold back a whoop of delight as he realized what Darien meant. The collar that had enabled Stark to cause Darien no end of pain and torment was no longer wrapped around his neck. Stark's eyes widened as he too noticed the absence of the metal band.

Darien's grin grew wider as he raised his free hand, which had until now been pressed to the floor, and held up the offending object between two fingertips. "Looking for this?" He threw it down at Stark's feet and stood up slowly, his tone calm but menacing as he said, "Put it on. I have a job for YOU to do."


	15. 15 and Epilogue

Stark looked at the gun in Darien's hand, then down at the collar lying at his feet, and shook his head. "No." 

Darien took a step toward Stark, his eyes cold. "No?"

"You heard me." Stark set his jaw stubbornly.

Darien smacked the barrel of the gun against Stark's cheek, leaving a red mark. Stark's men started to raise their guns, but Darien clicked his tongue reprovingly. "Ah, ah, ah. If you shoot me, I'll shoot him, and then you'll be out of a job. It's not like Chrysalis is gonna have anything to do with you, now that you've defected over to Starkie's side, here."

The guards hesitated, unsure of themselves. Hobbes took the opportunity to snatch the gun out of the nearest man's hand. He looked it over, noting the skilled workmanship and the superior firing capabilities when compared to most weapons he had found on the streets, then hefted it to get the feel of its weight and balance. An appreciative whistle escaped from his lips. "Nice." Claire shot him an irritated look, so he hurriedly passed it on to her and took the remaining gun out of the other henchman's grasp. Then he handcuffed their wrists together, saying in a tone he usually reserved for stray dogs, "Stay."

Darien seized the remote control from Stark's hand, "Alright. I think it's safe to say we have the upper hand right now. So put the damn collar on, or I'll put it on for you. You really, REALLY don't want me to do that."

Stark's composure flickered visibly. After a moment he bent down, picked up the collar and reluctantly fastened it around his neck.

"Now call off your men," Darien said calmly. "I know there're more of them swarming around here somewhere."

Stark narrowed his eyes and started to refuse, but Darien held up the remote tauntingly. He snarled irritably and then lifted his radio to his lips, saying in a commanding tone, "Abort mission. I repeat, abort mission." He dropped it back to his side and glared over at Darien. "Happy?"

Darien tilted his head to the side for a moment as if in deep thought and then shook his head. "Not quite...." He nodded toward Hobbes and Claire. "Apologize."

Stark bristled. "I am NOT going to--" he was cut off abruptly as Darien brought a finger down on one of the buttons of the remote. He let out a strangled yelp and fell to the ground, clutching at the collar. Darien bent down in front of him, "Doesn't feel that good, does it?" Darien released the button, and Stark slumped against the floor. "Now. Apologize."

Stark gasped for oxygen for several long moments, then glared up at Hobbes and Claire. "I'm sorry," he spat, his tone venomous.

Darien frowned. "That didn't sound very sincere. How about another try?" He activated the collar again to provide incentive.

Hobbes shook his head. "Fawkes, this isn't gonna prove anything."

Darien glanced over at Hobbes, "Well, it'll sure make me feel a lot better."

Hobbes crossed his arms. "Really?"

Darien thought for a long moment, then sighed and shook his head. "You're right. It wouldn't." He stood to his feet, regarded the remote control thoughtfully, and then smashed it to the ground. He looked down at Stark, his face grim as he said, "Have fun in prison. I'm gonna make sure you get the full five-star treatment." Then he turned and walked down the hall. His shoulders were slumped and his hands were buried in his pockets, but a there was a measure of cockiness in his stance that brought a grin back to Hobbes' face. Yes, Darien Fawkes was definitely back.

***********

The next day, Darien stormed into the Official's office. The Official looked up, but before he could say anything Darien held up a hand. "Yeah, I know, knock first." Darien turned to the door and pounded loudly on its surface, then advanced toward the Official's desk, his expression livid. "So you fire Hobbes, try to kick him out of his house, and then threaten my life? Are you TRYING to piss me off, here? 'Cause you've done a pretty good job of it."

The Official's eyes narrowed. "And just what do you intend to do about it?"

Darien leaned forward so that his face was only a few inches away from the Official's. "For starters, you're gonna give Hobbes his job back, and correct his landlord on that little mistake about his house payments. Oh, and you're gonna give him a raise. A. Very. Big. Raise. And you're gonna give him his own keycard to the lab."

"Anything else?" the Official asked sarcastically.

"Well, I'm sure a personal apology would be too much to ask for," Darien returned in a similar tone, "so I'll just settle for you giving Claire and I big raises too. And you can forget about me getting regulation haircuts and wearing suits to work." He gestured at his head, "This is the closest to a regulation cut you're ever gonna see on me." He started to walk out of the room, but paused before walking out the door. "Oh, and don't get on Claire and Hobbes' cases for telling me about the crap you tried to pull while I was out of it, because they didn't."

The Official frowned. "Then how did you--" Darien walked out of the room rather than hear the end of the Official's sentence. Eberts was standing outside, a worried look on his face.

"How did it go?"

Darien shrugged. "How do you think?"

Eberts ran a hand through his thinning hair, a forlorn expression on his face. "Oh dear...."

Darien placed a hand on Eberts' shoulder in a consoling fashion. "Don't worry, man, I didn't tell him that you were the one who told me. You're off the hook, and Claire and Hobbes had better be too." His brow furrowed. "Otherwise, I might just give the Official a first-hand demonstration of some of the techniques I've learned."

Eberts paled. "You wouldn't--"

"Kill him?" Darien shook his head fervently. "Nah, I'd just give him the scare of a lifetime." He cracked his knuckles. "Kinda tempting to do that anyway...."

Eberts shook his head in a manner not unlike that of a bewildered parent unsure what to do with their rebellious teenage son. "Claire and Robert are waiting for you in the Keep."

Darien nodded. "Yeah, I know." He gave Eberts a grateful smile. "Listen, man, thanks for the info. Really came in useful back there." He nodded toward the Official's office. "I mean, I'd known something was up, but...."

Eberts held up a hand. "Think nothing of it, it was the least I could do."

"Somehow I doubt that," Darien replied, amused by Eberts' modesty. He gave Eberts a parting nod and then walked through the halls to the lab, belatedly realizing that Hobbes was no longer the only one that needed a lab key-card. He rapped loudly on the metal door, giving Claire a sheepish grin as she opened the door.

Hobbes standing just behind her. "Hey Fawkesy, I heard you went to see the fat man. How'd it go?" His expression was more than a little skeptical; Darien could tell he suspected something.

"It went fine," Darien said, being purposefully vague. He walked into the room, noting with surprise the large collection of food and drink spread out on one of Claire's normally pristine countertops. "What's with the edibles?" he asked, gesturing toward the food and giving Claire a questioning look.

"Well," Claire said, clasping her hands in front of her like a giddy schoolgirl, "you're back, and we never had the chance to celebrate before. I thought we might as well have a party now."

Hobbes smirked, "And quite the party it's gonna be." He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of beers, as well as a can of soda. He handed one of the beers to Darien, the soda can to Claire, and expertly popped the top of his own beer.

Darien glanced over at the can in Claire's hand and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged. "I'm the designated driver."

"Oooh, we get to go home in your SUV?" Darien waggled his eyebrows. "Nice."

Claire smirked, "Don't you go getting any ideas." She picked up her CD case and waved it in the air. "Who's up for some dancing?" Darien and Hobbes both made quick affirmations of their willingness to do so, and the three friends spent the rest of the evening dancing, talking, and enjoying each other's company. It had been some time since any of them had actually had the opportunity to relax, and they were fully intent on enjoying the experience.

  
~~*~~ Epilogue ~~*~~

  
Stark reclined in the darkest corner of his cell, his hands tented in front of his face as he brooded on the best way to eke out revenge on Darien Fawkes. Being in prison tended to limit his options, but he was sure he would be able to think of a feasible way to escape and have his vengeance soon enough. Preferably a long, slow form of vengeance that would make Darien wish he had never been born.

He frowned and looked up as his musings were interrupted by the sound of someone beginning to unlock his cell door. Who would be coming to visit him? He had given Eleanor specific instructions to stay as far away from the prison as possible. He didn't want to run the risk that the Agency might be spying on him and would try to take the opportunity to snatch Brandon back again by following Eleanor home. She could take care of herself, of course, but Jared still felt it was for the best. This meant that his visitor was most likely someone from the Agency. And any visitors from the Agency were visitors he could live without.

The door finally swung open, and a distinctly feminine shape was silhouetted in the doorway. Stark frowned. "Eleanor, I told you not to--"

"Hello, Jared."

Stark frowned. That was definitely not Eleanor's voice. He watched as the woman stepped into the room, and only just managed to stop a curse from escaping his lips as he realized exactly who his visitor was. "Hello, Tabitha." He gave her a forced smile and nodded his head in mock-civility. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" His insides were churning. This was definitely not a pleasure. How dare the woman who had just taken over his job visit him in jail!

Tabitha gave Jared an enigmatic smile. "I'm here to talk about you, actually." She leaned forward and lowered her voice until it was barely above a whisper. "I know what you tried to do to me. Or rather, what you tried to have Darien Fawkes do."

Even though the prison was overly air-conditioned, Jared felt himself breaking out into a sweat.

Tabitha straightened and began to pace the room again, "I don't appreciate it. Not at all. I was hoping we would be able to at least tolerate each other. We might have even become friends." She shrugged. "But, apparently, that was not to be."

"How did you find out?" Stark asked, making sure to keep his tone neutral.

"A mutual acquaintance." Tabitha smiled coldly. "I'm sure you recognize the name Arnaud De Föhn."

Stark nodded tersely, "I've had some dealings with the man, yes." This, of course, was a vast understatement; aside from Tabitha and a few other high-placed Chrysalis members who had been giving him a hard time, Arnaud was one of the first people on his mental hit list.

"He and I had a very... interesting talk the other day." Tabitha turned to walk out the door, but paused for a moment. "Enjoy your life, Jared. You never know when it will end." And with that, she was gone.

Stark placed his head in his hands and held back a soft moan. Now he was almost desperate to see Eleanor and Brandon. He understood Tabitha's parting statement for the threat that it was. He was going to be lucky if he lived through the night.


End file.
